I could have called the blog "The Odd Sock Basket," but it would make me feel very Erma Bombeck or Jean Kerr, and I only want to be those women some of the time.
There is, in fact, a basket in my room filled with the odd socks that are left after every laundry-folding session. The many odd socks I might say, but I won't go on and on about my family's inability to put things in hampers--others have scooped me on that story. And I'll just mention briefly the absolute guarantee of finding the odd sock's mate two days after you have given up and thrown it away.
No, what gets me about the odd sock basket is that with every load some socks are reunited, but new socks are inevitably consigned to the lonely basket existence. It's emblematic of a quality of life--especially domestic life, but I suspect all life--that can bring you up or down, as you choose. The relentlessness, the eternity of it. Every day we have to cook the damn dinner; every day we have the opportunity to savor what sustains us. Every day things get dirty and have to be cleaned; every day is the opportunity to start fresh. Every day some things are lost and some are found.
Don't worry, this blog isn't going to be about laundry every day. In fact, this being a rainy Friday, I think I feel a song coming on...
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