(let’s see if I can get through an entire post about clothes without mentioning my irrational hatred for jeans! Oh, wait…)
Yesterday, I visited Sports Direct, and budget sportswear store here in the UK from which I buy all my clothes, save for particular band or referential t-shirts ordered from Sharkrobot or something, which basically makes it my New Look, Debenhams, GAP and River Island all in one, a far more convenient system of buying clothes.
And, as ever, I pick my clothes based on price; I needed socks, so nodded approvingly when I saw a deal for ten pairs for six quid, and immediately bought them. Yet they are ankle socks, which I’ve not work before, and have mixed feelings towards now.
Functionally, they’re no different to taller socks; they let me wear shoes, allow me to wander around our kitchen without my flatmates thinking I’m some clothes-shunning barbarian, and provide warmth to my feet in my room, where the window has been open for five consecutive months now and I don’t know how the radiator works. But I miss the ankle bit! I’m missing that feeling you get of pulling on a pair of socks, and really pulling them up your legs until they’re snugly in place, because these ones have no ankles to pull. If anything, they’re too snug, having some perpetual form of snugness as a result of their compact shape, which means that toe-hugging tightness is no longer something for the sock-wearer to decide upon and carry out themselves, a combination of decision-making and footwear-adjusting that is nothing short of bloody satisfying, but is a state of being forced upon the sock-wearer by the sock itself.
It seems that, in this way, ankle socks have more control over their form of wearing than their taller brothers and sisters, which means that the wearers of ankle socks are more powerless than other sock-users. And, frankly, I don’t know if I trust socks, especially ones I bought yesterday, enough to give up that kind of power and control.
So far, my new socks haven’t attempted anything untoward with this power; they’ve not stolen my credit card, tried to slice off my feet inside them, nor are they nefariously carrying me around to places I don’t want to go in scenes that would resemble Wallace & Gromit: The Wrong Trousers, except with fewer penguins disguised as chickens, and a greater sense of impending, clothes-based doom.
But if anything happens, I’ll let you know.