Wednesday, February 25, 2015

wear your socks outside.

California hasn't had much winter this year, or, really, in many years. A day is deemed winter-y when I must wear socks. And, in the last few years, I've hardly worn socks at all. I'm impartial to socks, I struggle with the ribs over my toes and the way they constrict about my calves. Their death hug is more annoying than the under-wire of my bra at the end of a day's work.

As a child, socks were never allowed outside. For reasons of dirt and holes and unprotected soles, socks were to always come with shoes -like the way U always follows Q. Rules that were rules for the sake of hygiene and safety and care of out things -even just cotton tubes for my sweaty feet.

But it rained this weekend. Slow at first, drizzling and wet all over the place but without drops. It felt like sitting in the wet kiss of a cloud. Not sad or damp, but sort of refreshing and warm like a sloppy, clumsy smooch from a toddler. Then drops, drippy and droppy, fell gently, not threatening or aggressive, but slow, almost accidentally falling.

I sat, dry and bundled, staring out the window. I sat and I watched the drizzle turned droplet. Hazel whined at the back door and my soul followed suit. It begged to feel the chill of the air, the freshness of the water, the coolness of the ground beneath my feet. And so, we wore our socks, hers white and always present, mine striped and quickly laundered, outside.

Hazel walked with her princess paws, seeming to tip-toe and desperate to keep her socks clean and dry. I walked, normal at first, slowly rolling from heel to toe, but then the chill, the dampness started to infiltrate the dry fibers of sock. And I stomped. In puddles, through the grass, over dirty spots. I stomped like a child in rubber galoshes, only my shoes were missing.

The weather transferred through the cotton threads of my patterned socks. It was refreshing like a hug, cool but kind, slowly creeping up the fabric embracing my feet. The coolness quietly cuddled my skin, reminding me of the relief of pool water on a warm summer day. Rain from the sky, fallen to the ground, now enveloping my callused runner's soles.

Buck the rules. Not always, not even often. But once in a while, dare to wear your socks outside in the dirt and the cold and the puddles on your porch. Know that dirty and daring and cold will happen. Know that you're going to muck up and make a mess. Know your soul will sing with joy and delight.

Yes, dare to wear your socks outside because that is precisely what laundry day is for.

16 comments:

  1. Sometimes the mess is worth it, yes?

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  2. There's something freeing about breaking the rules.

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  3. This post spoke to me... Thank you <3

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  4. Breaking the rules every now and then keeps us young!

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  5. I'm so sorry, I really want to agree with this and I promise I understand the point but wearing wet socks is, to me, one of the absolute WORST feelings in the whole world. So how about I just go barefoot in the rain? Will that work? Please? Can we still be friends?

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  6. Barefoot is allowed. But then you better be in the snow.


    Just kidding. Sort of.

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  7. YES. Absolutely 20938102938% yes.

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  8. No black toes like Mr. Deeds. (Although that would be kind of cool now that I mention it...)

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  9. YES! Sometimes as I'm breaking them I feel like I'm five.

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  10. Yes. So much freedom even in just the most minor or risks.

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  11. AMEN. THOUGH.


    You should totally do it in Texas right now while it snows... :)

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  12. YES. Well, sometimes you think not, but then it is.

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