I had a little panic attack today. Why, you might ask. (You might ask. I'm not sure why, but you might.)
Well, whether you ask or not, I'll tell you. I bought socks.
I could bore you with the story of how I have spent these last cold weeks in southern PA slowly discovering that my old socks had holes in them by stepping on cold tile whilst slipping down to the kitchen for a late night snack, or I could just jump to the short version -- I needed new socks.
So, after much him-hawing (because I see any money spent on clothing as "vanity money" that could be used instead for a new toy), I gave in and bought new socks.
In fact, I bought 6 pairs of new socks. Nothing fancy. Not my style.
But, after the buying, came the laundering. Not the money style. The actual water-and-soap style.
Let me skip ahead one washer and dryer load, to the action!
After all was said and done, I had 6 new pairs of socks. Soft. Tight elastic. Thick soles. Perfect.
And, in order to keep my life and sock drawer perfectly neat, I decided to rid myself of 6 old, hole-ridden, loose-elastic socks.
It wasn't hard. "There's a hole. Pitch in the garbage."
But, I got to thinking. I hadn't bought new socks in about 5 years. That's 5 years worth of service these socks gave to me.
And, then I got to even more thinking. Those socks were brand-new in 2005. I was 19 in 2005.
I was a freshman in college in 2005.
Those socks, now sitting quietly in my trash, had been through quite a lot with me.
They were there when I moved to college. They were there in those horrifying, exhilarating days.
I was wearing those socks before I even knew what I was "going to be when I grew up." (That, of course, assumes that I know now.) These socks sat in my underwear drawer as I was discovering who I was.
At the age of 19, I thought I wanted to be a computer programmer. Then, a high school English teacher. Then, some kind of psychologist.
Now, of course, I want to be a writer. I mean, a paid writer. But, at 19, I didn't know that. I only knew I had the writer's spirit, but, like Bruce Banner, I was unsure of how to wield my inner-strength. At that time, writing was a hobby. Not an opportunity.
I hadn't made the decision to take a Creative Writing course. I hadn't met influential professors. I hadn't even thought of a graduate degree. Of flying to frigid Vermont to meet with other writers and hone my craft.
I hadn't had the thought yet, What if I'm not good enough? What if I'm crap and no one will tell me the truth? What if I'm a joke?
None of that had come yet.
At the age of 19, I was dating the same girl I am dating today. But, at the time, I was fumbling with my first relationship. Now, I'm still fumbling, but now I'm an experienced fumbler.
All of these things occurred since I bought those socks. But I didn't pull them out of the trash. That would be an inability to let go of the past.
But then I saw these new socks. 6 new pairs. Purchased in 2009.
And I thought to myself, what will life be like when I throw these socks away?
Let's say I finally come around to buying new socks for myself 5 years from now. What will have happened? What will these new socks have seen?
Where will I be? Will I be somewhere for work?
Will I be writing? Teaching? Selling poorly hand-crafted straw dolls on Venice Beach to buy gas for my van?
Will I be married? A father? Or will I have made "The Ultimate Fumble?"
It's the strangest wish I've ever made, but I wished then and there that these socks could talk to me from that future. What advice would they give me? What forecasts of doom or happiness?
All of these thoughts of the past and future from such innocent-looking garments. How naive I was when I bought them. How naive.
