It’s a funny thing socks. As a kid you feared that wrapped box under the tree. The last thing you wanted to find was a murder of socks — but you knew they were there. A game of battleship ensued, with each gift bringing you closer and nearer to the dreaded prize. It was always a point of contention — was it best to get the socks early in the gift cycle? Or was it best to hope upon hope that it would be the absolute last gift you received.
It’s a funny thing socks, because at some point in my life I started to hope upon hope for that staple of Christmas. I like socks. I like nice socks. If I were to receive a gift of wonderful argyle — or other such none plain but classy sock — I’d be ecstatic.
Socks for Christmas — go figure.
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