I Have Opinions About Socks Now

And other signs I've completely lost it

I used to hate getting socks for Christmas.

Like, genuinely offended.

“You’re telling me Santa brought me SOCKS? The man has flying reindeer and a global logistics operation and he’s out here delivering footwear?”

I don’t know how, but something has changed, I now treat them like luxury goods.

I don’t know when that change happened, but I suspect it’s the same year I started making involuntary noises when sitting down.

One day you’re a person who sits silently, the next day you’re providing full audio commentary. “Oof.” “Ahhhh.”

“Okay, here we go.” Like sitting down requires narration now.

But back to the socks.

I have opinions about socks now.

Strong ones.

I’ll stand in front of my sock drawer evaluating options like I’m selecting wine. “No, not those ones, the elastic’s gone.

These? Too thick for these shoes.

Ah, yes, the “good ones.” I have categorized socks by quality tiers.

I also get unreasonably excited about new socks. Someone gives me a three-pack and I’m acting like I just unboxed a luxury watch.

“Feel this material. FEEL IT. This is Egyptian cotton or some premium blend.

These are going in the special rotation.”

Yes, sadly there’s a special rotation now.

The everyday socks and the “I have a presentation today” socks.

Socks have become part of my confidence strategy. Bad sock day? The whole day’s compromised.

One of them bunches up in your shoe? Might as well go back to bed.

What the hell has happened to me?

Don’t get me started on losing socks.

Used to be whatever, they’re just socks.

Now it’s a genuine tragedy. “Where’s the other one? It was RIGHT HERE. I just bought these.”

I’ll spend twenty minutes searching for a missing sock like I’m an extra on CSI (Crime Scene Investigation - for those too young to know the show).

The dryer’s not even the main suspect anymore.

I’ve developed theories.

Maybe they’re crossing into another dimension.

There’s a sock black market I don’t know about.

Or is my washing machine running some kind of long con.

To compound everything, I now GIVE socks as gifts.

And I’m genuinely excited about it. “I got you the ones with reinforced heels. You’re going to love these. Trust me.” I’m out here evangelizing about sock technology like I’m getting a sales commission.

My friends and I have had entire conversations about socks. Not quick mentions, full discussions.

Wool versus cotton.

Compression socks.

Whether toe socks are acceptable in society. (They’re not, we all agreed, but one guy tried to defend them and we haven’t let him forget it.)

I also now understand why my dad used to get so angry about people wearing shoes in the house. It’s not about the floors.

It’s about SOCK PRESERVATION.

You think I’m letting someone grind dirt into these premium wool blends? Absolutely not. Shoes off at the door. This isn’t a barn.

There should be a ceremony for this transition. Like when you get your driver’s license, but instead it’s “Congratulations, you now care about socks. Here’s your membership card to middle age. Side effects include grunting when standing up and referring to dinner as ‘supper.’”

Nobody warns you about this.

They tell you about bills and mortgages and career choices. But nobody mentions the day you’ll be genuinely thrilled about moisture-wicking fabric.

And yet here we are.