








"Time stands still best in moments that look suspiciously like ordinary life." - B. Andreas
Today I reorganized my clothing. Starting with my closet—by color, knit, and weight. Then, to that chest of drawers that my mother found at a yard sale some thirty years ago (which, must be noted, was a piece of shit then as it is now). My shirts and jeans and underwear and socks. I kept inventory of my clothing as I assigned place. Twenty-four T-shirts (long and short sleeve), eight collared shirts, five pairs of slacks, three pairs of jeans, three khaki carpenter pants (one with eight pockets, two with four pockets), two gym shorts, twenty pairs of underwear, four undershirts, and twenty-seven socks. Yes, twenty-seven.
I knew I was missing one. I laid out my collection of socks on my bed, all in a row, once more by color, knit, and weight. Eight pairs in from the right, a black dress sock cowered in singularity, ashamed of its nudity. Left unrolled without a partner.
What the fuck do I do with one dress sock? It is not an every day white sock worn under an outfit that will occasionally lose its partner. That loss is expected, almost encouraged, in order to rematch the remaining socks from one’s collection and to hopefully lose the old ones with holes and sweat marks –Darwin’s theory of survival finds application in even the most menial of places. But a dress sock? A dress sock even in its name implies a status higher than the average Hane’s Tube Sock with its predestined obsolescence. A dress sock is worn far less than its casual counterpart. It is worn with an outfit in deliberate dressiness, which, in turn, implies precision and attention to detail.
How the hell do you lose a sock with a specific purpose? I would have taken care to ball the dress socks before entering them into my laundry. Black dress socks aren’t just taken off helter skelter and left on the floor. If you wear black dress socks they are for an event, and after said event you would hang up your clothing and put socks in the designated area for cleaning. Becauseyouworetheoutfitfortheevent. So where the fuck is that sock?
Looking at the row of thirteen paired and balled socks, and looking at the ninth (from the right) within its sequence, to that single black dress sock, I felt an anger so real and so palpable and so exhausting that I did not know what to do with myself. It made me want to throw my body around my bedroom, to knife the air so violently that that fucking missing sock would reveal its hiding place to me out of fear of further repercussion.
I decided that destroying all order that I had created was now a necessity. There was no reason to continue any sense of personal catalogue. I pulled my eight collared shirts and five pairs of slacks off their hangers and left them in a heap on the floor of my closet, not separated by color, knit, and weight. Then I went to the kitchen and knocked the spices off my spice rack, because order doesn’t exist here anymore. Because a world where a black sock loses its mate does not deserve a double-shelved, meticulously-catalogued spice rack.
Then I tore apart my mother’s recipe collection, each recipe pasted onto a piece of cardstock then hole-punched into a binder, each recipe in alphabetical order. I ripped them all out and mixed them up as if they were a deck of cards. Then I moved to the other rooms of my house, and ruined any order I had assigned to my music, movies, appliances, photographs, silverware, toiletries, bills, letters, hardwares, books, magazines, and to my childhood collection of baseball cards and comic books.
My sister found me there, among a sea of personal belongings thrown about in self-imagined chaos, sleeping on a pile of DVDs and photographs and Marvel Comics. I wore a single black dress sock, my other foot bare. She told me it was time to write a letter to you. She says it’s time for you to come home.