It was a mystery deeper than the Sphinx: What happened to my red-and-green Christmas sock?
With its mate, it was my very special holiday sock, worn each year, only from Christmas Day to New Years Eve, not your dime-a-dozen plain white athletic sock. Now, it was missing.
It simply could not have gotten lost when I was loading the washing machine. I have a very strict protocol: the biggest items — pants and long-sleeved shirts — go in first, then the smaller ones, down to the socks, the very last. With everything else loaded, I can give my socks undivided attention, plus, once in, on top, they’re less likely to slip into a pants pocket or a shirtsleeve down there at the bottom.
When I unloaded the wash, all the other socks, except my Christmas sock’s now-forlorn other-half, were paired up, so it clearly was not any kind of mass breakout. And I knew it wouldn’t have willfully abandoned the mate it’s been with for over two decades.
Especially unsettling was that, along with its partner, it gets washed only once a year, so the odds against losing it are high.
I did the normal search — shook out the washed clothes, checked in pockets and sleeves, even inside the other socks that were in that batch, scoured the bottom of the washing machine, looked behind it and behind the dryer, re-checked my sock drawer.
I also went through the whole house, including the basement, and even looked around the back yard. Not a trace!
At this point, my wife worriedly intervened. She gently reminded me that, throughout the world, socks were always getting inexplicably lost and no one was the worse for it. But, I reminded myself, she had never liked that particular pair of socks. I couldn’t rid myself of that shadow of doubt.
Still, after a few days of dancing delicately around the issue, I had to acknowledge that I was obsessing, and agreed with her suggestion that this might be a good occasion to see my therapist.
I went the next day. After I had filled her in on the situation, she asked if I believe in God. That was the last question I was expecting, so distant from a lost sock, but she insisted there was a good reason for it.
No, I don’t, I said. She asked if I felt that those who believe in God find genuine consolation in their belief. I thought for a few moments and, a bit unsure, said yes, probably.
Then she asked if I had believed in the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus when I was a kid. I told her I had. Did it bring you comfort? she asked. Yes, I said. Would you like to believe in them again? I suppose so, I said, as long as no one else knew, but it’s hard to imagine believing in something you’ve convinced yourself is not true.
Do you enjoy music? she asked. Yes, very much. Does some of it move you to joy … or to tears? Yes, both, absolutely! Is the same true of plays and movies and works of art and literature? Yes, I said.
Would it be any different to envision a land where lost socks go? she challenged. Maybe some tears at what’s lost, but maybe joy, too, picturing a place or a dimension or a dream where a sock, even if it’s separated from its mate, might enjoy the company of other socks, or come across an old friend, or, best of all, be reunited with its long-lost partner.
But it wouldn’t be real and I would know that it wasn’t, I said.
How would it be different from plays or music or movies, or any of the other things you know aren’t really real, but still move you?
I thought for a bit about that and had to admit there really wasn’t any difference.
Why don’t we … both of us … close our eyes and think, not just of the socks that have vanished mysteriously, but the ones that left naturally because we outgrew them, or they simply wore out.
We were silent for a few minutes. Then she asked, How was it?
Amazing, I replied. I saw lost socks that had found a welcoming place where they could share their stories. I even recognized one I’d left behind at the beach and another that had simply vanished. They seemed to have put all that behind them.
So, they’re not so different from us, right?
It’s true. I can feel, now, how sad my remaining Christmas sock must be. I’ve got to figure out a way to lose it so the two of them can be reunited.
Sort of like humans, right?
Indeed!