I am unable to credibly avoid the organizing and unpacking. I’ve put my back out. I’ve gone to a writing conference. We’ve gone away for a weekend. So I’m back at it.

THIS is my socks collection. Three drawers. A wicker basket. And a bed full of unmatched onesies. King-sized.

I know. It’s a sickness.

Gym socks. Boots socks. Socks for flats. Socks for lounging. Sleeping socks.

I have too many socks. M. agrees.

So I gathered a pile to donate.

“Would you mind putting these in the donation box near the front door?” I asked M.

He looked at me. He looked at the socks I’d just handed him to be donated. Four pair. And couldn’t stop laughing. Gasped for air, even.

“Knock yourself out,” he gasped, between laughs.

“Well,” he said, once he recovered his composure. “You need all those socks.”

“I do? For what?”

“To wear with all those SHOES you own,” he said, as he collapsed in laughter once again.

Ha. Ha.