I Love My Feet More Than You

Every once in awhile I fall asleep ridiculously early - think 8:00 - wake up at around 3:00 a.m., and spend the rest of the night/early morning watching movies and drinking caffeinated tea. Sometimes I feel compelled to eat something, or maybe replace the movies with music performed by individuals desperately in need of a little Prozac while I reminisce about all of the odd things that have ever happened to, or been perpetrated by, me.

I find this fun. Which is why I was happy as a clam when I found myself awake at 3:30 on Thursday morning, making pasta and listening to angsty Welsh rock. (Is The Manic Street Preachers not one of the best band names ever?) And it was as I was sprinkling garlic powder over my freshly buttered egg noodles that I remembered the time I denied my boss the use of my socks.

Yes, the socks I was wearing.

It was about a year ago, and it was raining. The woman I like to call Lady Micromanage had been micromanaging something or other outside, and in the process, her socks had sustained some - quite serious - water damage. Upon reentering the store, she eyed my Converse-clad feet and asked if she could have mine.

"My socks?"

"Mine got all wet outside."

"Oh. Huh."

I ran through all the possible counterarguments in my mind. My socks are too small - oh wait, no they're not. My socks don't match - but she wouldn't care. My socks prefer the sanctuary of my shoes to hers - but that's really insulting.

Then I wondered if my reluctance to share my socks with a person in need made me a horrible, selfish wench. Her feet were cold. Her socks were soggy. (That's a gross word, isn't it? Soggy.) My feet were dry, and I could go without socks for a few hours, couldn't I?

Well, yes. But then so could she. Keep your socks on, my feet begged. You're walking home; she's driving. We are more important than her stupid feet. And they were, I decided, absolutely correct. I needed my socks.

"Well," I said, "normally I would. But I was outside earlier too, and my socks are wet as well."

"Oh." Her voice was even flatter than usual, crushed with disappointment. I felt bad for a moment, and then I thought, what kind of person asks her employee to relinquish her socks? She'd promised to give them back, which she probably considered generous, but I found it repulsive. How could I ever wear them again? Once my socks touch the sweaty, rain-soaked feet of another human, they become dead to me. It's cheating, as far as I'm concerned, and cheating is something you do behind your partner's back, not with her grudging permission.

And asking people to give you their socks is abnormal, right? Or, at the very least, a slight breach of etiquette? Because I didn't buy those socks on a lark, I bought them for a specific reason. I bought them because I wanted my feet to be swaddled in cheap stretchy cotton.

Don't my feet deserve that much?