Life has this funny way of throwing things you’ve said back at you, like a rude, ironic pie in the face. A couple years ago I was talking to a good friend of mine and our conversation went something like this,
“Have you ever tried ______ socks?”
(I confess, I’ve forgotten what kind they even were)
“Ummm… yeah, I think I actually have a pair of those.”
“Don’t you just love them?”
“I just discovered them and I absolutely adore them.”
“Yeah, they’re great.”
“I got my sister-in-law some for Christmas.”
“You got her socks, for Christmas?”
“Yes, and she’s going to love them. They have these built-in arch supp--”
“Ahem… So how are the kids?”
I admit to thinking it was kind of silly to be hung-up on something as insignificant as socks. I considered my self quite a 'bare-footin’ it through life' sorta girl. You wouldn’t catch me obsessing over argyle knee-highs or purple footies. The last time I had paid attention to socks was in second grade when it was cool to wear multiple pairs of socks in bright colors and roll the tops down.
Similarly, I internally scoffed when my cousin sewed an extra layer of lace onto her baby girl’s socks because she couldn’t find any that matched the outfit her little darling was wearing.
And, as if that wasn’t enough, I outright laughed when my husband and my oldest child constantly complained about the condition/position of their socks. No holes allowed. No footwear put on over a sock with the slightest twist or wrinkle. Ever. Period.
‘Ha! Fanatics.’ I thought. I mean, they are only socks, right?
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
My name is Rae and I’m a sockaholic.
Yep, me. How did this happen?
First it was my children.
They received these socks as a gift this summer.
They were so cute.
They covered a world of issues. They didn’t have to match the outfit. Everyone just assumed my child was eccentric and had insisted on wearing his/her favorite socks that day.
I’m not adverse to knowing smiles in the grocery store.
It beats the annoyed eye-rolling any day.
No more realizing my daughter’s toe-nails were still dirty in the middle of Bible study.
No more making my son leave his boots outside so we could eat without the stench overwhelming us.
I had been, up to this point, rather cavalier about reminding my turkeys to wear socks. But who could forget these snazzy babies? Best of all, no more screams to wake the neighborhood when I was shocked awake by my children’s icicle-like feet in the dead of night.
Then Pip got these.
THESE were fabulous. They are wool. Smartwool.
And that was it.
(I ordered them online and then made Mr. Loggerhead give them to me for Thanksgiving. Hey, I’m not above picking out my own gifts. I’ll even wrap them if he needs me to.)
So if you do not want to be addicted, if you do not want to be caught wearing your socks for days on end because you don’t have to wash these very often and they are so comfortable you may never want to take them off...
If you do not want to read about the benefits of the way they are made, the way they last longer, the way they don‘t itch like most wool, how they keep your feet drier, warmer, cooler and less stinky...
If you do not want to visit they’re user-friendly website where you can order Smartwool socks and have your own pair on your door-step in no time...
If you do not want to see all the styles, heights, cushion levels, designs and ohhhhhh, the colors...
Do not, I repeat, DO NOT, click on this link to the smartwool website!
Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Got Socked in NEThis is me, receiving my first pair of smart wool socks. [orchestral music]