Was I scared that there wasn't enough yarn? Was I tired of orange and brown? Tired of wearing socks? Tired of giving socks away? Tired of making the world a happier place by adding to its store of homemade socks?
Had I found sock yarn I loved more? Was this sock tossed over for a cuter sock, a more interesting sock, a sock that fulfilled me more both spiritually and emotionally?
Did I set this sock aside and forget it existed? Is this an orphan sock? A sock cruelly abandoned to the streets? Is it a Dickensonian sock, an Oliver Twist of a sock, a sock that has been quietly but audaciously begging for gruel beneath my other abandoned knitting projects?
I'm going to give this sock a home and make it a match, because I am good and kind-hearted. I will find in myself the will to love all unmatched, abandoned homemade socks, no matter how orange and brown. I am going to spend a few days making this sock feel wanted and loved, because I am that kind of knitter, and because my feet are cold and the socks I got at Target are already falling apart.
I'm a writer and a stay-at-home mom who keeps meaning to mop the floors because I think it would make me happy if I did. I love books and music and writing, spend entirely too much time in the dentist's chair (I bet I have more crowns than you do), and used to think I was sort of bohemian, but now I wonder. No tattoos. Minivan. That story.