Today I’m Wearing Red Socks
Today I’m wearing red socks.
I have a pair of red socks as a warning. To alert me to how lazy a shit bag I’ve been about my laundry. To remind me that I am down to the bottom of the barrel and that if I don’t do laundry soon, I’ll be relegated to wearing dress socks whose elastic has gone slack from the punishment my enormous calves have put on them when formal attire is called for. Yes, these are the ones that should’ve been tossed long ago. Guilty.
And even if their elastic is up to snuff, these socks are far too thin for sneakers.
And it’s less about cheapness and more about using the little money I have on things more enjoyable than mere socks. But when it’s a red sock day, I’m forced to reconsider my appreciation for this mundane everyday undergarment.
I fantasize about appropriately fitting socks that don’t squeeze too tight at the ankle. I admire the substance of a fresh sock, yet to be worn down by the rigors of life’s motion.
I have underwear like that, serving the same purpose.
Today, I’m wearing those too.
They’re Beavis and Butthead underwear that feature the cartoon duo quite prominently in the nude. Technically they are wearing fig leaves, reenacting the most famous panel from Michelangelo’s paintings adorning the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, “The Creation of Adam.” A bearded Beavis reaches out to bearded Butthead. Pretty weird, right? Well, what better way to be reminded that come tomorrow, you will be faced with a difficult underwear decision.
Free-ball it or ride ‘em dirty? An underwear encore presentation? The ole inside-out trick? A timely conflict we’ve all encountered while navigating the hard realities of adulthood.
But adulthood is much different now than it was. I find myself in my warning red socks and Beavis and Butthead boxers quite honestly because my days fill madly with emails, appointments, hustling, all of it, still just to scrape by paying rent to a landlord that needs to replace a washer that took a shit, actually more like a big horse-sized piss, a few weeks ago. The old girl (the washer to be clear) couldn’t do it anymore, washing her final load, and spilling out her wet insides all over the basement floor.
Was sad to see her go.
But now that I’ve mourned the loss of our washer, I’m kinda like, “Where the fuck’s our new washer?” I’m gonna text him right now. Maybe I’ll leave the part about the red socks out.