A little-known fact about me is that I'm a very deep thinker. No. Really. I often sit quietly in my recliner with no sound in the room save the dog's snoring and an occasional bout of cat flatulence and simply contemplate the mysteries of life.
And life does have its conundrums, as you know.
I seldom share my deep thinking with my friends or loved ones because they laugh at me.
Me: I have been thinking deeply, and I would like to share a bit of conundrum-solving news with you.
My friend Sherry: Have you been into the Grand Marnier again?
My daughter, Christi: Tell it to the shower aide at Sunnybrook Farm.
So I mostly keep my musings to myself. But this week I have been contemplating one of life's greatest mysteries: Why do at least one pair of shoes in your closet eat your socks?
Everybody has a pair. They are often among the most darling on the rack. They fit well, don't pinch your toes, usually come in your favorite color and draw compliments like flies on watermelon rinds.
But they consume your socks. And you can't make them stop and you don't know why.
You start out in the morning with a pair of trouser socks that almost reach your knees. You think there's no way they can be sucked up by a mere set of Sketchers whose soles make adorable patterns in the mud.
So you pull them on. By the time you reach your office, the shoes have gobbled the sock heels and are munching up your ankles. You sit at your desk and unobtrusively yank them up. The elastic lies placidly on your calves again, and you are ready for business.
My business lies mostly with police officers, and they are much too busy to notice socks, I tell myself, even as I feel tiny teeth sinking into the woof and warp on my heels and watch the material inching down my legs.
"Something wrong?" sheriff's Sgt. Roger Griggs will ask, eyebrows raised at the strangled sounds I'm making while trying to halt the sockly descent with the force of my mind.
"No, no … everything's fine," I insist, trying not to be obvious about grappling with the elastic tops as they are sucked into the shoes with a loud, embarrassing schlepping sound.
The length of material is now bunched under the arch of my foot and an inch of bare ankle shines between my shoe and my pants leg. And yes, of course these are the pants that inch up over my knees when I sit to further enhance the gobbled-socks effect.
In desperation I borrow a couple of rubber bands from Griggs and he pretends not to notice what I'm doing over there behind the crime reports. You remember fifth grade, when your bobby socks refused to grip your legs and collapsed in a heap around the tops of your penny loafers.
You know what you did. You rolled rubber bands over your toes and up your ankles and placed them at just the right height and the rolls of bobby socks sort of drooled down over them and kept them aloft until the tight bands cut off the blood circulation to your feet and they fell off and you carried them home along with the tattered acres of net that ripped off your Alice Lon petticoat that day.
When we were teens, the problem was pantyhose that crawled down your torso and raced over your hips and threatened to escape your miniskirt. So you reversed the order of your lingerie so your underpants trapped the errant hose and confined them at the proper altitude.
Oh, I tell you that deep thinking solved those problems and with a little time and contemplation I can fix this one, too.
So far, I know this: Some shoes eat socks because they are possessed by demons. They will not abate. If you go sockless, they will eat your feet, and given free rein they will nibble the hems of your pants.
They must be exorcised.
We must cast out the unclean spirits in those demon shoes and replace them with clean, happy spirits. And after deeply thinking and deeply drinking and consulting the shower aide at Sunnybrook Farm, I have the answer. Anoint them with the happiest spirits of them all:
DONNA FIELDER can be reached at 940-566-6885. Her e-mail address is firstname.lastname@example.org. Follow her on Twitter: @donnakaye6.