Lack Of Socks

Chief’s routine is to come home, play with the dogs, give me a kiss, then settle down for a long evening of couch riding while watching Military Channel and tickling the keys of his Dell.  Somewhere in between, he completely disrobes into just his undershirt and boxers. 

This means that every day The Maid (me) has to pick up a pair of pants, a shirt and two socks.  I have tried to train him otherwise by using various threats of throwing the offending garment in the trash, or by hiding his wallet after I’ve taken it out of the pants that were on the floor. 

I’ve even gone so far as to say “I would be happy to wash your clothes if you would please place them in the hamper."

In my pre-engagement giddiness, I had somehow managed to neglect housework for a few days until “it” was brought to my attention: “Are you going to do laundry pretty soon,\ because I’ve been out of socks for three days.”

I know what you’re thinking.  No, folks.  I am NOT J-Fed’s new roommate.  

Know what I was thinking?  What in the heck was he doing for socks for the last 72 hours?  I dared not ask.  I did, however, let myself imagine how he must have felt when he went to the drawer that morning and it was bare. 

Inside he must have had this secret little panic attack about what to do.  Did he “rough it” and wear the thin dress socks with his hiking boots?  Perhaps he turned an old pair inside out.  In his desperation did he ever consider, even for a moment, to borrow a pair of mine?  

Whatever he was doing, it sure must have been easier than picking up the -- are you ready for this -- six pairs that I found in the living room and putting them in the washer.  As I type this I have to wonder who is the slacker here, him for not washing his socks or me for letting them pile up like that in the living room.  Oh, wait.  It’s still him.