Socks

I was thinking of all sorts of things to write about, all very clever and witty of course

Okay.  First off I'd like to say that I awoke in a ridiculously good mood this morning.  I'm wary of it.  Its weird.  My emotional make up seems to respond to the laws of physics laid down by Sir Issac Newton, the ones pertaining to gravity anyway.  Similar to more physical objects, when my emotional make up finds itself at almost any elevation it's immediate reaction is to plunge straight at the ground as hastily as possible.  Not only do all physical things do this but, barring impediment, they all do it at the same speed.  So at any moment I wouldn't be at all surprised if my day were to suddenly take a dive accelerating at 32 feet per second, per second.  And, like physical objects, would end up lying around on the ground unless artificially propped up.
  But being in such a good mood I brushed off the thought of imminent disaster and went for a little ride in my truck.  Riding through the pastoral countryside around my residence I was thinking of all sorts of things to write about, all very clever and witty of course, and also of clever and witty writing styles and so forth.  I decided that it was high time I once again put quill to parchment . . . well, fingertip to laptop anyway.  
  When I got back to the loft I found that my ebullience had faded somewhat and the required energy was lacking and not really up to the task.  In other words, I had a monumental attack of laziness.  I don't seem to ever gain any tolerance to these frequent attacks and so they always have the same effect.  I had gone, earlier, to a department store to buy some socks and some industrial strength pain killers to combat an industrial strength headache . . . with the pain killers, not the socks.  It felt as if I had a few panicking rats trying to claw their way out of my head.  Such a condition is another strike against the likelihood of my being in a good mood but, even though the mysteries hidden there are surely deep and intriguing, I shall not digress.  
  Rather than going through the drawn out ritual of booting up my computer, an aging veteran of not only commercial business but of long hours of unprotected internet access resulting in programs which run around trying to connect me to some web page or other when I no longer have internet access, I decided to put away my socks.  A simple task.  A level of activity I was sure I could maintain.  Nothing to it, really, but such mundane acts have a way of making me feel at home.  It doesn't work.  I don't feel at home, but I try nonetheless.  
  I picked up the plastic bag with six pair of "socks: men's crew, cushion" thinking about how they would feel the first time I put them on.  It occurred to me that while I would never even consider wearing a new shirt or jeans without first putting them through the wash, such was not so with socks.  You can rejoice in the freedom of being able to put them on straight out of the bag.  And so it will remain unless the government gets involved.  I was about to open them when I saw a label at the top which read "resealable bag".  Closer inspection revealed this to indeed be the case.  A resealable bag for socks.  Does anyone actually remove one pair of socks and seal the rest for later?  Or maybe even just one sock?  Am I missing something fundamental here?
  Well, that did it.  Out came the computer.  Irony of this magnitude simply cannot go unrecorded.  

Later . . .

  Okay, I did it.  I admit it openly.  I pulled one pair out of the bag and then sealed the rest against the effects of the world.  I did it deliberately out of sheer,  oh, I don't know.  But I felt that the onus was upon me to give that bag's life meaning and purpose.  So its done.

  . . . . . . the socks feel great!

                                                   ken graves - 2003