I’m in love with mismatched socks. Short n long, tight n loose coming together for the good of feet humanity. Tending to the warmth of my sole. A FU to the matched, pristine, perfect world. Wardrobe rules are to be broken, one sock at a time. The deliciousness of WRONG.
My non-conformity has deep roots, childhood roots. We were to appear presentable as to not bring shame to THE FAMILY. An unspoken rule, to make the Matriarch happy – so she could be cast as a really attentive, perfect Mother. All her ducklings in a row, soldiers with matching smiles. Matching everything.
This CONFORMITY…An energetic expectation in the bloodline. Grandma donned a classic narcissistic wardrobe. She would dress in a single color. Obsessive-like. Crazy, really. Hat, shoes, shirt, earrings, jacket, purse, pants – all banana yellow or all red or what have you. Modeling conformity, discipline, obsession, vanity, rigidity. Was quite the sight.
So, my duty…to unravel rigidity, one string at a time. A private joke just under the surface of my SEEMINGLY aligned exterior. Wrong feels so right. Fleece, Fuzzy, striped, embroidered, nylon, wool, buttoned, jeweled, knee-high or mid-calf. My socks, my secret.
When I am “found out”, my secret cluster fuck accidentally revealed, I blurt – “But I have another pair just like this at home”.