I have lived on this planet for fifty-six years and within it I have been able to see many things like the flourishment and collapse of civilizations and the advancement of technology and societies. But among all that, the mystery which still remains unsolved is the reason socks go missing after washing them in the machine. Last week, while I indulged myself in the mundane activity of cleaning clothes, which can easily be compared with dry paint or painfully listening to a timeshare monologue, I have encountered this mystery once more.
Out of the six pairs of socks I washed, five and a half came out clean. I lost a dress sock that was navy blue with subtle grey stripes which I bought thinking it would go great with the suit I have for job interviews and funerals. With socks that inappropriate, I would really stick out like a sore thumb.
This isn’t the first time it’s happened. The pathetic drawer that houses my socks has now begun looking like a retirement home for unpaired socks. Currently, there are seventeen who are all single waiting for their partner to claim them.
Each unmatched socks are extremely annoying mysteries that I simply have no patience for. What really confuses me is the statistical unlikeliness of this troublesome disappearance. If socks are being lost through an accident or simple misplacement, one would expect as many socks to be discovered in strange locations as misplaced.
However, I have never—not once in my adult life—found an out of place sock in my kitchen or hallway. It disappears as if it had been devoured by a black hole, never leaving a trace behind other than its outcast pair. My neighbor Harold is a retired accountant, so I can only imagine how important keeping things orderly is to him.
He created something he calls the “Sock Tracking System”. Personally, it appears downright bonkers to me, but he seems to take great joy in meticulously counting, organizing, labeling, and recording every single one of his socks before and after each laundry cycle. “It is the only method to collect proof for the phenomenon’s existence”, he explained to me over our shared fence, as if we were talking about a national security issue.
As it turns out, he has been collecting data for over eighteen months and it shows that he loses 1.7 socks every month. Statistically, there seems to be a significant correlation to mercury retrograde periods. I would brush this aside as the thought processes of someone who has spent too much time in retirement, but looking at how color coded his drawers are, I can surely say that truely does take the cake.
Many remedies have tried to tackle this mysterious practical problem. One of the most simple one is that socks get trapped between the washing machine drum, housing or the folds of fitted sheets and duvet covers. I’ve taken apart my washing machine twice, much to the annoyance of both my fingers and the manufacturer’s warranty, and all I found was a petrified grape.
The sock that I discovered, which appeared to have sewn itself onto the hem of a pillowcase was an astonishing find that proves the existence of laundry alchemy. But, I still have not figured out why there are so many items missing. Over the years, more creative hypotheses have emerged.
My friend Jessica, who believes in both quantum physics and crystal healing, argues that socks are disappearing because of wormholes in time and space. “The dryer creates the perfect conditions for interdimensional travel.” She said that while we were enjoying a coffee. “The heat, and rotation of the dryer basically accelerates particles of clothing.” When I asked her why only socks are the ones affected by this rift in the cosmos, she responded that socks are “tubular,” which means that they are aerodynamically suited to navigate through worm holes.
I politely nodded my head wondering how fast I could drink my latte and exit. One’s socks are always believed to be missing due to the demand theory, a reasoning that Martin believes in and takes further. He even goes to the length of using quiet voices while talking about the appliance as if it’s eavesdropping on him.
“You have to outsmart it,” is something I remember Martin saying to me at the break room. “I pin my socks together before washing. That way the drier cannot take them apart.” I counter-questioned him saying that this technique would not allow the socks to get cleaned and he looked at me with pity.
“That’s exactly what it wants you to think,” was his answer. It all makes sense now, Martin was promoted to management. My ex-wife believes that I am careless, suggesting that I dropped my socks when I was doing laundry, or rather, I left my socks behind in hotel rooms while on work trips.
While this is a reasonable explanation, it also lacks a more interesting reason such as interdimensional traveling. Regardless, it is a little too accurate for comfort. Regardless, it does not explain why I have never once lost a bath towel, as these larger items are surely left behind more so than something which fits in a pocket.
Maybe it is the sock suppliers themselves who seek to benefit from this conspiracy. Perhaps the level of obsolescence that has been engineered within the sock industry is frighteningly genius, where the threads self destruct at the point of maximum convenience. Or maybe sock suppliers have invented a new form of psychological warfare, by asserting that socks randomly disappear so we are forced to buy new pairs, without ever actually rationalizing why it is such a ridiculous situation.
If I had to guess, a hidden economy might exist solely for single socks. Somewhere on the deep dark web, an unregulated market is probably blooming where my missing navy blue pinstripes socks are being traded for sullied argyle ones. I certainly cannot fathom who would benefit from that, but in an age where people collect bottle caps and trade them online for made up items, it isn’t that unbelievable.
However, the most anxiety inducing part of this mystery is how it’s taught me a life lesson that begs for sobering thoughts. A sock only disappears when it doesn’t need to be on your feet, which is the entire point of their existence. No, the universe focuses on removing pairs purchased within the last month.
It’s almost as if some galactic force is at work that willfully decide to put me into chaos that is too distracting to ignore but too relaxing to put any effort into fixing. The ongoing mystery of this issue is deeply troubling. How many hours were unnecessarily spent trying to find a missing sock?
How many relationships have suffered because someone’s sock negligence was called out? These simple pieces of fabric have turned into shards in the domestic life; slices that while seem insignificant, consume an unreasonable amount of mental capacity. I have developed ways to cope.
For a few years, I only wore plain black socks for my left and right feet because I got rid of the idea of mismatching socks. It worked until I realized that even black socks change their color over time. Instead, my sock drawer became filled with sleeves that were completely deviated from each other, changing from black to charcoal to gray.
I set aside one week every few months as what I like to call “sock amnesty,” where I just get rid of all the unmatched socks and buy new ones to restock my wardrobe. Even though this method is questionable financially, it gives me a sense of temporary control over the true chaos of the next laundry cycle. Some claim that mismatched socks should be embraced as a style choice, as they try to combine fashion toward some level of personal expression.
These people, I suspect, are the same ones who claim to enjoy a morning jog, along with a kale smoothie – consider their claims highly dubious. Surrendering socks should not be viewed as a fashion statement but rather as a miniature surrender to the chaos of the universe. It’s a small white flag that gets hoisted from one’s ankles.
So, last Christmas my sister—who fancies herself to be smarter than others—gifted me horribly designed socks that are intentionally mismatched. “Now it won’t matter when they disappear,” she said, too pleased with herself for my liking. Out of the blue, I managed to figure out that every single sock in my possession had ripped a hole and now I have one sock of every pair with me.
The universe, it seems, has a very funny sense of humor. There may be a simpler answer–perhaps socks are like us in that they’re also trying to escape from their predetermined paths. Washed, dried, and foldered, socks get imprisoned over and over again.
So, when our attention is diverted, they try to make a run for it. Somewhere out there, a socks utopia must exist. A place where one-socks are free from the need to match, or for absurd rules like how socks should be organized in drawers.
Or, it could be that I dropped one behind the dryer last Tuesday and just haven’t gotten around to checking. The sock wormhole theory is definitely the most entertaining one. It frees me as I have poor sock-keeping skills while assuring me that other galaxies have infinite pinstriped socks.
The sole reason I care about them is also that I don’t have the courage to take these formless socks out of the drawer, so I’d eye them by going fully clothed into my room and wondering why on earth I have socks that I can’t even wear. When I do collect the courage, I can get rid of all socks I feel don’t belong to me…and sigh in peace instead. The mystery remains, the battle doesn’t stop, and somewhere I’m sure there’s a sock-maker laughing.
