I’ve complained before that I seem to lose everything: my wallet, my glasses, my car keys. I even lose track of the last part of my thoughts as soon as the first half exits my mouth. My poor neighbors play what they think is a fun game and try to fill in what they think I was going to say.
And, now, I am losing track of time. I think it’s noon but it’s really nine o’clock. And days seem to fly by or stand still! There is no rhyme or reason. I lost April, it was there and then it wasn’t, and I don’t know where it went. I maintain a calendar to keep me on the straight and narrow, and April’s calendar page has a whole lot of scribbling on it, but other than a couple birthdays, nothing looks familiar. What happened to April?
But I do remember this date: May 9. I meant to write about it, but, of course, I forgot because I had more important things to think about, like where I had left my list of blog ideas. May 9 was an especially important day. Both my kids called, and my grandkids texted me. I received flowers, a bottle of red wine, banana-less banana bread, and a new pair of socks. How much better can it get than that?
Now you are thinking it was Mother’s Day, which is true, May 9 was Mother’s Day, just check your calendar. I failed at recognizing it on my Wrinkly Bits blog and I want to offer a belated Mother’s Day greeting to the many mothers who read my Wrinkly Bits. I’ve never really understood much about setting aside a particular day in May to honor mothers. In my mind, they should be honored every day, but nobody asked me.
May 9 receives a second designation, perhaps even more important than Mother’s Day. For sure, it designates something that frustrates mothers all over the world. But I doubt that anyone received flowers or wine or even a text because of this day. May 9 is Lost Sock Day. Imagine that. A whole day designated to lost socks. I usually wear sandals, so don’t really have a good supply of socks to lose, but I checked and found six singles in my sock drawer, and I’m just one person. Imagine a family of four, twenty-four socks gone, poof, leaving another two dozen mismatched socks to drive mothers to the wine stash.
On May 9, between grandchildren’s texts, I spent some time thinking about Lost Socks. They receive a whole designated day on our U.S. calendar of important days, so we should pay attention. I pulled out my single unlost socks and laid them on the bed. I had no idea where the mates are, under my bed, under the dryer, clinging to some other unworn item in my closet. (Remember that I have several sizes of clothing in my closet and those with “S” on the label haven’t seen the light of day in a long time.) My mother, the field marshall, used unlost socks as dusting mittens. My dad used them as rags to wipe grease and grime from his greasy and grimy projects. My brothers didn’t care much about socks, lost or unlost, and I’m sure they had a ready supply tucked away somewhere.
I decided to start over and threw away my unlost socks, except for one that I really liked and hoped its mate would reappear and I thought it important keep at least one unlost sock for next year’s Lost Sock Day. I put it back in the drawer and I snagged my watch on something. I sighed, you guessed it, a crowd of single socks, I counted ten.
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