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Holiday deals are popping off in my inbox, Instagram feed, and beyond. The algorithm dangles treats in my face — quilted socks and matching lounge sets and minimally designed skin care made with foraged desert blooms.
Charming socks call to me, but I resist because it is the right thing to do. My sock drawer is already stuffed full, albeit with a mismatched chaos. The contents tell a story of uncertainty. Its plot follows a young girl as she grows up in the Midwest trying to define her identity.
Our study begins at the back of the drawer, where we find a dusty pair of hot pink argyle socks worn thin on the heals. These gaudy knee-highs date back to the early 2000s, where they once caught the girl’s eye in Target. She slid them off the metal rack, and decided that $3.99 was a small price to pay for a statement.
A week later, she had them on below her plaid uniform for her debut performance — playing root notes on a bass guitar along to a CD of worship music in front of her entire school. Her intention was to join a worship team (the word “band” was considered too edgy), which was as close to Josie and the Pussycats as she was going to find in this small town. To be paired with just a boom box instead was humiliating. Luckily the hot pink argyle socks screamed “I don’t give a frick” on her behalf.
In the far left corner of the drawer, we dig up a colony of crumpled Adidas socks. Some have matches, some do not, but all of them share the same low-ankle cut. They get lost in a shoe after just a few steps, but in 2006 they were the obvious accessory to a membership at the YMCA. These sad, thin socks once jogged miles to a soundtrack of E! Hollywood News on complimentary cable TV. Now they linger, not quite dismissible, but never needed.
The sock drawer is dotted with patches of yellow knits — Gold Toe socks, a favorite of the girl’s mother. “These are quality socks,” the mother said wisely, long ago, as she handed over an extra three-pack in an awkward shade of cornflower. In all the years they’ve been in rotation, they’ve never met an outfit they flatter. Uncoordinated socks were suitable for her early 20s, when our heroine was out to prove that she “wasn’t like other girls.”
The story continues, and shall continue for the rest of my footed life. No matter what, the socks will say something. They are a knit example of the inescapable performance of life, where not caring is an act all on its own. Our personalized Holiday ads appeal to our urge to define our moment. The curation of stuff mingles with our identity. It cannot be helped.
Here in this internet, with a single click, I update my entry: Katie, noun, a gal who just started wearing ruffled ankle socks.
I'll take back those cornflakes Gold Toes, if ypu'd like. ;-)