My Sock is Missing!

Most of us own socks and many of us lose them. Where do they go?

I have a basket of lone socks. I never throw them away because if the mate ever turns up, I wouldn’t be able to pair them up again. I have one mate-less black sock that’s been in the basket for over a year (hope springs eternal). I really liked that pair, but have no idea where I got them.

Occasionally I’ll shake out a fitted sheet or unfold a bath towel and find a sock nestled inside (now that’s static cling). How does an orange striped sock go unnoticed when I’m folding a pastel sheet? This I do not know. I’m always delighted to find the sock and have been known to greet the prodigal sock with, “So that’s where you’ve been. Glad you’re back.”

Did you know there was a Bureau of Missing Socks? Joseph Smithson, a Union soldier, started it during the Civil War. A haberdasher by trade, he implemented a General Order that all union soldiers had to turn in a full pair of used socks before receiving new ones. Thus, he stumbled on the fact that most troops lost only one sock at a time. (Hmmm, no dryers on that battlefield.)

Socks go back as far as the Stone Age—simple animal skins wrapped around the ankle. By the 8th century B.C., socks had evolved to matted animal hair; Romans wrapped their feet in leather. By the 2nd century A.D., people used woven fabric. Historians discovered knitted socks in Egyptian tombs between the third and sixth centuries. Cotton socks didn’t arrive until the late 17th century.

Over time, these wrappings changed to strips of cloth with feet sections attached. Around 1490 tights came into stylet—each leg a different color. My granddaughter would have been right in fashion.

In 1589, an English clergyman invented the knitting machine. It seems William Lee did it for love. That’s right love! The story goes that the woman he was in love with, a fanatic knitter, seldom looked up from her clicking needles. He wanted her to look at him. (Who said necessity was the mother of invention?)

As fashion changed, men’s pants became longer, and stockings became shorter. So did the name—stockings became socks.

Plain white socks (popular in 50’s and 60’s) are still around, but today, sock choices are determined as much by function and construction as by appearance. Have you shopped for socks lately? The selection is so vast I need Socks For Dummies to decide what style and material to buy.

I own socks with a sushi design. Two friends have the same socks; we used to wear them to sushi dinner nights. My favorite socks are cashmere, lime green with dots. Extravagant, but oh, so soft and warm.

There are specialized socks for sports (soccer, baseball, tennis and running) and shoe styles (sneakers, boots, casual shoes and even toe socks—they’re funny looking, but they make it easier to wear flip-flops). Business types often favor trouser socks while athletes prefer socks with wicking capability. Did you know your feet could produce over a pint of perspiration a day?

I have a friend who buys her socks in the men’s department, she says they’re less expensive and she likes the argyle patterns. Bishops in the Catholic Church wear purple socks; the Pope wears white.

Sock hops (I remember those) started as a way to protect the varnished floors in school gymnasiums. Like many good things, there’s resurgence in their popularity among middle and high school students. One school in South Bend, Indiana gave the term a new twist. They collected 800 pairs of socks for a local charity; to celebrate their success, they held a sock hop.

Last weekend I was invited to a party in San Francisco. The invitation included the instructions: wear your most outrageous socks and come hang out for the sunset over the ocean. Rain obscured the view, but the array of socks was eye catching.

Single socks have practical uses. They make great dust cloths (perfect for baseboards and small spaces), monkey dolls, and places to hide treasures. As a kid, I kept pennies, marbles and small treasures in one of my dad’s old socks. Socks on the ends of a ladder protect wood floors. I put them on the legs of furniture I want to move (a never-ending pastime—maybe an obsession). I pack shoes and small electronics inside empty socks when I travel.

I know someone who lost the cover for her umbrella; she replaced it with a slightly altered flowered sock. It’s cute and it catches drips. Smart idea.

The award for Best Use of a Single Sock goes to Katie Murphy, a Petaluma teenager diagnosed with Hodgkin’s lymphoma, who used cut-off sock tops to make covers for her PICC line (an implanted device in her arm for transmitting chemo medicine.) Now in remission, she’s expanded her idea and started the PICColina Foundation dedicated to donating colorful sleeves for kids with cancer. Good job, Katie!

Maybe the socks that never come out of the dryer are sacrificing themselves so their mates can be vehicles for creative inspiration. Maybe the missing socks crawled out the vent to someone else’s house for a better fit. Maybe children under the stairs are wearing mismatched socks. Maybe there isn’t any mystery at all.

In the scheme of things, a missing sock is an annoyance not a catastrophe.

Here’s an idea. Throw caution to the wind; pick two socks with personality, ones with color and pattern, ones with something to say and sport them down Castro Street. You may catch a glance, even a comment—just laugh and dance along. Have fun! If you feel embarrassed, look for me. I’ll be nearby flaunting mismatched Socks and colored crocks; I love that look. We can dance together and then have coffee.

Afterwards, we’ll grab our stash of orphaned socks, and if we’re lucky, we’ll each have a half pair that match. What size do you wear?