I love new socks. I think they are quite possibly the greatest thing ever, but Russia is ruining them for me and I'll tell you why. But first I'd like to go into a lengthy discussion and monologue about my love of new socks (slightly exaggerated).
I love new socks in the morning. I love new socks in the evening. I love new socks after a shower. I love new socks on Sundays. Basically I love new socks and if I had enough money I would have a brand new pair of soft, white cushiony socks with which to clothe my glorious feet. These wouldn't be fancy socks, just your simple white-with-gold-toe cotton socks, but it would magical indeed.
Picture this: You wake up late on a Sunday morning after an enjoyable evening the night before. You yawn and stretch, even contemplate just laying around in bed all day, but something is compelling you to leave that little slice of heaven you call your bed, something strong. So you get up and manage to get through your morning routine, which culminates with a shower. You get dressed in your best Sunday loungewear and sit down on your bed and think to yourself, "I'm missing something, but what is it?" You're not sure why, but you're drawn to the dresser. "Did I put my underwear on backwards again?" you say out loud as you approach the dresser. So you check and no, everything there is quite fine, nothing weird like last time. Your place your hand on the dresser, feeling the smooth mahogany under your fingertips, vaguely bringing back memories of something in the distant past. Your hand moves to find the drawer handle, strong and firm, but wanting to pulled and so you oblige and you slide it open and what you find shines upon your face like the Holy Ark of the Covenant itself. "Oh dear God, how could I ever forgotten!" you whisper and a single tear slides from your eye and moistens your cheek as it sparkles like a diamond from the light within.
What you see, Dear Readers, are brand new, white (with gold toe!) cushiony, cotton socks.
You immediately grab a pair and sit down to put them on your now clean feet. You savor every moment as the cotton slides up around your toes, rubbing your heels ever so softly before settling just above your ankle, covering it like a seductive dress that clings to a woman's curves. All of a sudden your senses sharpen. Now you notice the birds singing, you hear the crackle of the bacon and the smell of fresh-brewed coffee coming from the kitchen, and the sounds of people on an early-Sunday stroll. But none of this matters, for you have on new socks. Is the coffee good? New socks. Is the bacon burned? New socks. Will the people on the street rob me? New socks.....and they are magnificent, divine and even noble.
Okay, so I don't like new socks that much, but once you start writing a story like that you can't stop. Anyways, as I mentioned this blog actually IS about Russia and socks. I'm not sure if it's because I'm still not used to being here or because I'm kind of on the other side of the world where maybe I've managed to get my lefts and rights confused, but something, something awful is causing me to put on my socks wrong.
In the past I've never had a problem putting on socks, but now every time, it seems, I get them crooked, completely ruining the feel that putting on a sock has. This is slightly more than distressing, for the immediate concern in that I'm running out of new socks and want to savor each new pair as best I can, but more for the long term concern: what if this is permanent? What if I am never able to truly enjoy a new pair of socks again because I can no longer put them on straight? I don't honestly know what I would do. I do know, however, that should that be the case I would never forgive Russia for robbing me of one the simplest, but more pleasurable joys in life.
So for the time being I leave you with this warning Dear Readers: do not take your socks for granted.
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