OP-ED: I Seem to be Losing my Socks

I am down to my last pair of socks, but things weren't always this way. There was a time, not so long ago, when I basked in a sea of socks. My feet were adorned with wonderful patterns, stripes, and colors of all sorts. They lived lives of splendor, and it brought me immense satisfaction to flaunt my bedazzled feet in the presence of strangers. Just thinking about it brings a tear to my eye.

Those days are no longer, devastating as it may be. I cannot even bring myself to look at my feet anymore, and it is not just because of the benign fungus in between my toes.

It all started rather innocently; I woke up one morning, rolled out of bed, and unsuspectingly opened my sock drawer. Little did I know that my life was about to be changed forever: I realized my prized blue-and-white striped socks were not in their rightful place. Horrified, I whirled around and immediately rifled through all of my belongings. Alas, my dear socks were nowhere to be found.

Though I was utterly devastated, I was comforted by my seemingly endless supply of socks. Oh, how young and naive I was. Over the following weeks, many of my other socks abandoned the home I had so painstakingly labored to provide for them. Most disappeared in pairs, but some particularly cruel socks remained even as their partners left, just to taunt me. There is nothing so horrible as being able to find only one sock out of a pair.

With each disappearance, I lost a piece of myself. I wondered, Who am I, if not a man with matching navy socks?  Still, my socks felt no sympathy and continually deserted me, leaving me but a shadow of a formerly great man.

I am ashamed to admit that my situation became so dire as to force me to do the unthinkable, the unspeakable: one morning, left devoid of a single pair of matching socks, I was forced to wear non-matching socks. Timidly, I crept outside, hoping to avoid being seen by the scrutinizing eyes of my peers. My efforts soon proved futile, however, as I was quickly ridiculed by a group of children. Their snickers cut me like a butter knife through butter, warm butter. Oh, how I yearned to tell them about my former days of glory, to show them my feet adorned in my wonderful socks. Yet, all I could muster was a meager whimper before promptly scampering back to my room.

Lying on my bed in darkness, I wondered what my parents would think if they saw me in this state, my barren feet exposed to the elements. And then I reflected on the relationship between Man and sock. Who are we to subject socks to years of indentured servitude? Enlightened, I propelled my remaining socks out of my window and into the street, liberating them at last. 

I just hope that one day, after my soul leaves its earthly vessel, my benevolence will be remembered.