one morning everyone is going to wake up and notice that their sock drawer is full of “send-me-off-to-my-corporate-position” foot coverings.
i had this revelation this morning, myself.
black socks? really? when did this happen and why i am continuing to wear these treacherous footies five days a week? i am getting old.
i mean, nothing tells you that the party is over and you have to work for a living for the rest of your life quite like dress socks. nothing tells you that it is no longer acceptable to sniff-test your clothes before rolling out the door, mixing beer in your cheerios for breakfast is a no-no, or you-tubing your most recent keg stand is soooo freshman year quite like dress socks.
i pondered to myself, “what could clue a person in on aging better than conservatively-printed cashmere dress socks?”
nothing. absolutely nothing.
forget the stretch mark cream that i have in the medicine cabinet. don’t even pay attention to the HGTV channel that’s permanently on the television. and let’s not even touch on the fact that i drive a fuel-efficient, family-friendly vehicle. none of this compares to the painful reminder of aging like dress socks.
this week, dress socks. next week, it’s a mini-van and Roth IRA.
don’t know what an IRA is? maybe you should try on a pair of dress socks.