Socks

I hate folding them. It's the worst part of laundry. I've always thought so. There are just so many of them, and they're so small. I swear half of them don't match. But it wasn't until I got married that that seed of hatred grew into an absolute loathing. I put off sock folding more than any other chore.

You see, Mikey has this habit. It's called wearing mismatched socks. Bless his heart he just doesn't care much (or is just a little absent minded). I remember being in Washington DC and going shopping for a new pair of dress shoes. I was so relieved that when Mikey took off his shoes, the salesman at his feet wasn't greeted by a polka dot and argyle sock. They actually matched!

So matching socks has become even harder. Not only do the real matches have a match, but the mismatched socks have a "match." A frequent conversation in our house has been, "Wait, which sock does this go with?" "Eh, one that's close." "Close in color or pattern?" "You choose."

It's silly really. Contrary to Mikey's not so meticulous nature, I'm a little OCD so now I dig through socks, line up dozens of them and try and figure out which ones match. It shouldn't be that hard. But I can't, in good conscience, throw whichever black-ish, patterned-ish socks together and call it a day.

Here's the upside, however, we don't have a non-matching sock bin. Well, I guess we do, but we call it Mikey's sock drawer . . .