at a young age, encircled by socks on every side, i vowed i would never mate a man's socks so long as we both should live. and probably beyond the grave when we were resurrected and shiny. i would be sure to underline that in the prenup-- the male party agrees to mating his own socks-- dress and athletic-- and ironing his own white shirts.
when i graduated from my household i didn't mind mating my own socks because they were manageable and distinct--roses went with roses, lime leopard print with its twin, and fuzzy stripes were two peas in a pod. easy as pie.
but tonight i had a revelation.
you see, once you've been dating someone for a while you begin to grocery shop and fold laundry together. you ease into each others' habits of necessity (eating and hygiene) and it's simple. almost like breathing.
so there we were-- two loads of laundry atop his bed and several yawns between us. i separated his shirts from his basketball shorts, folding as i went. then i came to the socks-- i picked them up like anything, turning them right-side-out and laying the mates near each other. my unbreakable vow {harry potter!} to never mate a man's socks vanished. somehow he and i were bigger than my angst about mating socks and i smiled at my foolish 7 year-old self for thinking i would never make such a great sacrifice.
long story short mr. k has a particular way of folding and rolling his white ankle socks and i was too tired to catch on, but the point is-- i would have mated his socks! this is progress, folks. real progress. maybe i'll even come around to ironing one day.
