Sock Stealers

Things have got worse since my stepson used to steal my socks. Now I live with my parents, my Dad steals my socks.

I didn’t realise that this was happening at first. I am not a very tidy person and it seems that almost every item of clothing I own is black. Getting dressed in dim lighting, in what is effectively the middle of the night (although financial needs dictate that it is ‘time to go to work’), it is difficult to pick out a pair of black trousers from the pile of clean laundry, let alone a small item such as a sock.

I had noticed that my supply of black socks was dwindling, but thought that they must all be in the wash. Once I saw that I was down to my last pair, I checked the pile of dirty laundry, but there were none there. It was a mystery. Had they all gone in the wash, and if so why had they not come back? Or were they lurking in the shadowy corners of my bedroom? I needed to tidy the room to find out. After contemplating this task for about a minute, I decided to take a walk. I put on my boots and set off into the bracing cold of a January day. It wasn’t long before the terrible truth began to dawn…My right sock was slipping down from my ankle, working it’s way to the bottom of my foot. I felt the cold leather of my boot against my foot and stopped to unzip it and pull the sock up. Comfortable again, I walked a few more steps but the sock slipped down again. It seemed to have lost all its elastic.

Something had made my sock stretch. . This is when I realised that there are worse things than your 11 year old stepson (with the same size feet as you) stealing your socks, and that would include your 69 year old father (with considerably larger feet and a somewhat unappealing nail infection) stealing your socks.

I am now back to my old tactic of buying pink socks. It failed with my stepson, who likes wearing pink, but I don’t think it will fail with my Dad.


My Stepson Steals My Socks

socks, stepson, pink hearts

He even likes pink ones

It’s ten to nine on a Monday morning, and I am thinking about work, of course, not sitting sockless, typing away about my barefooted state, making myself late. That would just be silly.

However, it is raining outside and I need to wear my boots and I CAN’T FIND ANY SOCKS. I’ve decided to blame my stepson, whose feet fairly recently grew to the same size as mine, at the same time as my socks began to disappear. It’s only logical to blame him.

I tried buying pink socks, trainer socks, stripy socks – socks that were very clearly distinguishable from his own, grey socks. It didn’t work. He is comfortable wearing pink, and if it wasn’t for the fact that it’s MY socks he’s wearing I would think that that was a good thing, showing that he is not fenced in by strict gender roles.

I tried complaining loudly about people stealing my socks. ‘It’s not me,’ he said. I tried hiding my socks, but then I couldn’t find them either. I mentioned at the dinner table that I had a nasty foot fungus which was really catching, especially by sharing socks. But still, every pair of socks I bought disappeared within a week.

Where were they all going?

The answer came to me a couple of weeks ago.

‘Time to go now, get your shoes on!’ yelled his Dad early in the morning. My stepson heaved his heavy schoolbag onto his back, and hunted around for socks – he couldn’t find any and running up two flights of stairs to his room was out of the question, so he grabbed a random pair from the dirty laundry.

‘Ew. They’re mine!’ I said ‘caught you!’ but as he ran out of the door, I thought about him for the first time, rather than my sockless state. I thought about his life, in which he is constantly on the move, shuffling belongings from one location (his mum’s house) to another (ours). He gets so confused that he now carries ALL of his schoolbooks in his bag every day, to avoid forgetting anything. His rucksack is bulging and he gets backache. Socks are the least of his worries. He now has a drawer in the living room full of clean socks which we replenish regularly; maybe a considerable amount of them end up at his other home and don’t return, but it’s one less item he has to think about and worry about carrying on his back every day.

As for me – it’s 9.10am, I’m still sockless, my stepson hasn’t been here for days so I can’t blame him, and I’m now well and truly late.


(next instalment: my daughter steals all my make up)