Wednesday, February 17, 2010
I wear a lot of ladies trouser socks. Not all at one time, of course. Just one pair is plenty. I like that they’re thin and don’t bulk up inside my shoes, and that they go all the way to the knee instead of stopping mid-calf, which never made any sense to me. Makes me think of those pictures of rock climbers cheating gravity, leaning backwards while clinging to an overhanging ledge. And anklet socks are even worse; they always leave a draft down below.
So I’ve given a lot of thought to this, and trouser socks have been a part of my life for a couple of decades. Unbeknownst to Rick, apparently, who stood kind of slack-jawed – to me, he really looked horrified – as I stooped to pull up my black knee-highs during our morning stroll along the boardwalk in Rehoboth this winter.
I thought I read his reactions like a book – no poker face, his: He thought I was wearing supp-hose, like his 75-year-old dad. Like an old lady; a doddering Q-tip who long ago flung fashion to the ground and pulled on her practical tights with the resignation and relief of old age.
Rick and I talked about this Kodak moment a couple of weeks ago, and he said, “What are you talking about? I wasn’t even looking at your socks. I was thinking about my web site.”
You can live together for a decade, a lifetime, and still not completely know each other.