The Mystery Of The Vanishing Socks

I've always pondered over this inexplicable mystery of where my washed socks always end up to. I would dutifully wash and rinse my socks each night after I'm home, hang them up to dry temporarily on the steel bar affixed on the bathroom wall, and call it a good day. Evil-smelling varieties would pop up from time to time, but they're usually conquered with the help of Dynamo (in the barrel loads), scrubbed into submission and spread out lifelessly across the fore mentioned steel bar. And that's when big trouble would begin in my little home.

The next day, mum or dad would transfer the collection of socks to the balcony to be dried out completely, and by late afternoon they would've been toasty and just right to be brought in, sorted out and finally, rolled up like so many cinnamon buns awaiting their respective owners. Fine, except that I don't always get what I washed the previous day before.

I would arrive home to pack my clothes into the cupboard and realize that the black twosomes I wore and washed yesterday had already gone missing. Just like that. Into thin air. Vanished without a trace. You get my drift.

The only two most probable places they could've end up into (apart from Sock Hell) is either my dad's or big brother's wardrobe. In case you are wondering, this is not a finger-pointing session accompanied by the throwing of plates against the wall. Rather, it all boils down to the simple case of misunderstandings over which article of clothing belongs to whom. Granted, there have been cases where I've dug up my Polo tee in my big brother's stockpile of clothes just 'cause my dad thought it belonged to him. All the men in our household are of the same build, so it's easy to see (no pun intended) why cases like these happen.

To date, I've lost the following - 3 pairs of black working socks, 2 pairs of purple working socks, a pair of green socks (don't ask me how I came to be in possession of purple or green socks. Just don't. Some things are better left unknown :P), at least one gray Nike workout socks, and one white Adidas sports socks. Heck, I've even lost just one side of this purplish-black pair, and now the remaining survivor has resigned to its role as the annual Christmas stocking.

To my credit, I've conducted low-profile infiltration missions into my big brother's said giant wardrobe in the hopes of unearthing my long-lost socks but nothing ever turns up. The same goes for my infils in Dad's wardrobe. I sort of pictured my big brother's wardrobe as this mini Bermuda Triangle where everything goes it and nothing goes out. In my efforts to curb unnecessary sock deaths (mine), I have sewn cute little "J" initials on them, placed barcodes, and even contemplated implanting microchips along their seams to have their strange migratory patterns tracked via GPS (Global Positioning for Socks). But nothing works, and the mystery only deepens. I can't help but chuckle over the irony of life sometimes. To counter this effect while I investigate further, I get all of my supplies from Giant currently at 99 cents a pair, which has the comfort level akin to wearing sandpaper on your feet.

I figured that this would probably make a very engrossing horror story if written out, published as a book and sold to the public to raise funds to buy myself more socks. I'll probably entitle it as "The Night Of The Vanishing Socks". Not quite original, but it'll do for now.

So if you've ever wondered what to give me for Christmas, look no further than the stuff you wear on your feet. Just skip the purple, green, red and other weird colored varieties, though.