One day a long time ago, I was working in a dry cleaners and had wet socks. Maybe there’s irony to be had there, but I can’t find it. Call me if you do.
Anyway, I was the sole employee in the store that day which meant anything that went wrong was my baby. Additionally, I was stuck there until closing time – come hell or high water. Normally, I didn’t mind having the place to myself. I could read or do crosswords when I didn’t have any customers to wait on or laundry to tag. So, truth be told, it was almost an ideal job for a lazy geek such as myself.
But, on this day the toilet overflowed. I mopped up the water which, mercifully, seemed as sanitary as toilet water can be.
But, in so doing, I got my socks soaking wet. Now Michael had planned to bring me lunch that day. So, determined not to wear wet socks for the remainder of the afternoon, I called and asked him to pick me up a pair of socks while he was out buying me lunch.
He took pity on me, and about an hour later, he showed up with some black socks and some lunch. I was savvy enough to eat the lunch and not the socks. This is a point of pride.
Anyhow, I enjoyed my dry feet and my full stomach and was generally a happy little camper – that is – until I got home and removed my brand new socks to find my feet were all covered with splotchy black dye.
Still no big deal, right? I simply washed and scrubbed my feet a few times and the inky stuff came off.
But here’s the part of the story where a few more IQ points might have served me well. Instead of just cutting my losses and tossing the offending socks in the garbage can right then and there, I washed them and put them in my drawer.
Do you even want me to tell you how many more times my feet were dyed black before I finally threw those socks away?*
Let’s just say more than three. I didn’t want to be wasteful. In fact, I sorta wish I could have sent those socks to the Island of Misfit Toys where they’d await their big chance to ride on Santa’s sleigh.**
I’m digressing from a digression there. Getting back on track now.
Help me out. What’s that old adage about other people’s lives sucking more than yours does so you should just accept the hand that fate has dealt you and shut the fuck up?
Erm, it’s something like, “I felt sorry because I had no shoes until I met a man who had no feet.”
Well, for me it’s more like, “I felt sorry because I had wet socks until I wore some that dyed my feet.”
It’s not pretty or prosey, but it’s absolutely true.
*Please note: I would not have donated those particular socks to charity any more than I’d have donated a dribble glass to someone who was dying of thirst.
**Santa isn’t just any old charity. He’d have searched and searched until he found someone who enjoyed having her feet all inky and sploochy.