So many of my blog friends have introspective, thoughtful posts today. Exploring their inner & outer worlds in new ways. Challenging us to follow them into the depths. (Well, maybe not Big Mama). But I’m here today to talk about socks. And the trauma of growing up with my father.
During my morning routine these days I always eat two peanut butter crackers (the ones with orange crackers – nabs, if you will) so that my stomach isn’t empty when I take my 27 ibuprofen. Well, really it’s just 4, but it feels like that many! Yes, it might make sense to just go ahead & eat breakfast. Ha! Those of you who think that don’t know me very well – I’ve got my routine precisely timed & there is no breakfast allotted. I eat breakfast at my desk at work. I’ve tried to be a morning person, but at this late date it’s not going to happen.
I take the ibuprofen as soon as I can upon waking not because of my shoulder (although it helps) or because of the arthritis in my hip, but because of my cracked tailbone. Makes the 45 minute morning commute SO much more comfortable.
Anyway (I am getting to the point!), this morning I did my little routine. Eat one cracker while dressing, take two ibuprofen. Eat a second cracker, take another ibuprofen. Then I put a sock on, paused (for perhaps as long as an entire minute!) & took the last ibuprofen. Yes, that was one sock. The other foot was just dangling out there all cold, waiting for its own sock. I can hardly bear the asymmetry. One warm foot, one cold foot. At the time I was proud that I wasn’t whimpering. I’m shuddering just remembering it now. Yikes!
And this is where my father comes in. He with his two socks on each foot, taunting me while he talked about how HOT his feet were as he took the socks off slowly. And then just STOPPING while there was still a sock on one of his feet. DADDY TAKE YOUR SOCK OFF!!! I was traumatized. He did this to me a lot while I was growing up. And maybe last Christmas. You just can’t escape some childhood terrors. We won’t even talk about the tickle monster. (Yes Daddy, I'm holding my arms TIGHT at my sides even now thinking about that).
And now, I’m going to spend some time studiously ignoring the fact that one arm is encased in a cloth sling while the other arm is free as a bird in short sleeves. How many of you have the same pathological (not the technical use of the word) need for the temperature of all your body parts to match?
This post was inspired by Linda at 2nd Cup of Coffee. You can read about her horrible asymmetrical foot experience here.
Happy Birthday Daddy!