I would say the hardest part about trying to write every day is coming up with something to write about. Except in the shower. I thought of so many ideas this morning in the shower that I made the whole house late this morning. This would have been almost acceptable if I had been able to keep those thoughts in my head until I had the time to jot them down. But I didn't. And it's late and I'm tired so you are getting a post about socks.
My boyfriend's mother gave me socks for Christmas. I am always barefoot, and they are a family of people who like to wear shoes. Sometimes her face looks pained with concern as she glances at my naked feet and comments about how cold the floor is in the basement where the ping pong table is. Feeling the ground beneath me is comforting. Makes be feel stable. I think I play ping-pong better that way. (Not really I still stink.) Even at work I tended to wear crusty old mismatched socks hidden under my sexy black boots. Who would know. But now that I've been wearing pretty gray socks with pick patterns--soft and just the right amount of thickness--they kind of make me happy. I think I might make a habit of wearing them.
At the end of Pablo Naruda's Ode to Socks he says it better than me:
The moral of my ode is this:
beauty is twice beauty
and what is good is doubly good
when it is a matter of two socks
made of wool in winter.
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