the story of my sock.

For Christmas 2014, my dad gave me a pair of running socks. Black with pink. Very snazzy. I like them. (I actually think socks are a great gift.)

I wore them on and off all spring. They match my favorite workout leggings and are warm. They’re great.

I took them to camp with me. You never know when Bemidji will decide to suddenly get cold.

I took them home.

I started packing for Sweden.

I put them in the laundry.

Only one came out again.

I looked everywhere, cursed the sock goblins, put the widowed sock in my dresser and went on with my life.

I moved to Sweden.

It was warm for a couple weeks, and I didn’t pull out my ISU sweatshirt until about the end of September.

I pulled out my ISU sweatshirt.

I shook it, cause it had been folded up for a while.

A sock fell out.

Black. Pink. Snazzy.

I sat down and laughed.

I wore the sock, matched with another old running sock whose mate had gotten a hole.

I asked my mom if she could peep into my dresser drawer and send me the lone sock she would find there.

She did.

I wore them happily. Twice.

I put them in the laundry.

Only one came out.

I looked all through the laundry room and retraced my steps.


Three days later, I got out of the other side of the bed and stepped on something soft.

It was a sock.

Black. Pink. Snazzy.

I picked it up, threw it in my sock drawer and laughed.

I did the laundry this weekend.

Guess what got stuck in the dryer.


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