I'm a sock person. And I'm also a shoe person and an earring person and a purse person. By which I mean that I have a special fondness for all of these articles of clothing and that, as a result, I tend to gravitate towards them any time I walk into a store, and as a result of that, I have a healthy collection of all of them. But as I was rummaging through my sock drawer this morning, looking for a pair that was relatively free of holes, it occurred to me that lately? I haven't really been buying socks. In fact, most of my new sock acquisitions of the past two or three years have been gifted to me by McMoose or my mom, both of whom are painfully familiar with my obsession.
And then, it further occurred to me that my 16-year-old self would be sorely disappointed in my 24-year-old self. Because that 16-year-old was CERTAIN that by age 24, she'd be living in some big city, spending every spare cent on socks and purses and shoes and earrings. And instead, here I am, living in what can only be described as a suburb. And the idea of spending 5 dollars on socks when that same 5 dollars could instead go towards making my bank account just a tiny bit happier has suddenly become odiously unacceptable. But. I have a pitiful, hairy, pointy-eared Dog and two very entertaining Cats. And I have a McMoose who makes me tea and who doesn't force me to watch gross, gory movies even though it's ALMOST HALLOWEEN. And I have this lemon-sized person that I'm growing. And the idea of being perpetually broke in a cold, grimy city is starting to lose some of its lustre.
But maybe I'll go buy a pair of socks this weekend.
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