It’s still cold enough that I want to have socks on when I first get into bed, but once I get a little toasty under the covers I inevitably peel each sock off with the toes of the opposite foot. When I wake up the following morning, it’s time to do some sock fishing, the results of which can set the tone for the entire day. Every once in a while I reach down with my feet around the bottom edge of the bed and hook both socks right away, scoop them up and hop out of bed to meet the day. This morning is more typical though. I nab the first sock right off the bat, but even repeated scourings of the sheet-scape fail to detect sock number two. At that point, I have to go all scuba on its ass, diving under the covers head first, enlisting the services of both hands and eyes. Still nothing. Next I check the floor between the bed and the wall. Nothing. Under the bed? Nothing. Well fuck, now I have no choice but to tear the whole damn bed apart, untucking sheets and blankets, necessitating a total bed remake when it’s all said and done. Still nothing. How can this be possible? Did my wife mistakenly dredge up my sock while fishing for her own? Surely she would have thrown it back under, or at least off to the side. But it’s nowhere to be found. I even rummage through the laundry bin, finding an even number of my socks. Ah, fuck it — there’s nothing to do but make the bed and move on, cursing whatever gremlin pilfered me in the night. Making the final tuck and surveying the scene one last time, I see a little white speck poking out from under the bed. And there it is. Of course, I already looked under the damn bed, but hey, the important thing is I have found my sock, and I slip it on my foot and head for the bathroom to empty my bladder. I step up to the toilet and right into a puddle of water left from my wife’s shower. The right sock — the one I worked so hard to recover — is soaked. Game over. Checkmate. Morning: 2, Bob: 0. Both socks come off and hit the hamper. Now where’d I put my damn slippers?
