I didn’t appreciate socks until I was well into my twenties and headed toward thirty. When I was young, I simply didn’t wear them. My husband still recalls with some disbelief our first real date. We were in high school and had gone out casually for the first time earlier in the week.  When he dropped me off, he’d said, “Next time it snows let’s go walking in Towner’s Woods.” Lo and behold, a scant few days later it did snow and in an unusual move, our superintendent cancelled school.  Kurt called me to make plans for a long walk in the snow later that day. 

When he picked me up, I was wearing Topsiders and no socks. He now says he has no idea why he continued to date me in the face of such monumental stupidity.  At the time he was astonished. I just didn’t like socks and I’m not convinced I even owned any, though I suppose I must have.  I didn’t understand why he thought it was such a big deal. So, with him shaking his head, we set off for our hike in the snowy woods. To this day I maintain (and he is forced to agree) that I didn’t complain (so why should he have cared?) and we had a great time.  We had such fun together, in fact, that 6 years later we were married in Towner’s Woods.

After my college graduation and our wedding, we moved to Baltimore. No one needs socks in Baltimore.  They really don’t.  You need air conditioning and you could make an argument for a concealed weapon in certain neighborhoods perhaps, but you really don’t need socks. So for years my sock bias remained unchallenged.

But then we moved to Maine.  We bought a 200-year old fixer-upper.  For the first year or two we had no heat in the kitchen other than a poorly designed wood stove. The kitchen pipes regularly froze and the floor was so cold that if I didn’t wear socks, my feet ached. I learned to appreciate the value of socks—not just any old socks, but really good socks—the ones in which you make a monetary investment. Like Smart Wool socks. Now, don’t get my wrong, my wallet still twinges when I see the price tag attached to those socks, but I now recognize their worth. 

So, today, with a chill clearly present in the autumnal air, I was willing to drive 20-30 minutes to investigate a new sock at one of my favorite fun funky stores. These socks were featured on their sale e-mail and after reading the description— “cozy fleece-lined wool socks” —I couldn’t resist checking them out. (The word “cozy” sucks me in every time!) I finally located them in a corner of the store, arrayed in rainbow hues. They exuded cheerful warmth and comfort, and even better, they were 25% off.  After some debate I selected a pair with warm blues and greens and happily paid for them, anticipating putting them on my feet. After arriving home, I immediately did so. I now have a little heat factory on my feet and feel encased in warmth from head to toe. These are super socks, ones that would send Dobby of Harry Potter fame into sock-excitement orbit. I’m almost there myself. These socks have raised my day to stellar heights. My daughters are home for the long weekend, there’s hot gypsy soup, a crispy boule and steamy gingered apple crisp for dinner, and my feet are encased in sock bliss.  Who could ask for anything more?  I think I’m going back tomorrow to buy another pair!