I love the sun. Really.
Getting up when its dark outside makes me grumpy. Running in the dark makes me nervous. Walking around in the dark makes me stub my toe. And sometimes run into walls. Unless I have my trusty cell-phone-screen flashlight.
I start work at a slightly different time every day. And especially at this time of year, I tend to leave my house around the time the sun is still rising. Because I wear glasses more than half the time and was too cheap to pay for transitions lenses, and because I lose and break sunglasses like its my hobby, I depend on my sun visor for glare protection.
It is absolutely useless.
Many mornings, I get into my car, back out of my driveway, drive through the neighborhood and onto the main road. After that I make a couple turns and BAM
See that black shadow up there? That’s my sun visor. And that super bright blinding ball? The sun. Clearly not being blocked by the visor. Sadly, I almost always drive around with it down, perhaps hoping that one day it will simply extend on its own or I’ll magically grow several inches overnight. Squinting all the way.
To the tune of Jingle Bells
Morning drive, morning drive
Squinting all the way
Oh how bright the sun is
In the first part of the day, hey!
A couple of nights ago, Bryan and I watched a particularly gruesome episode of Taboo. A Russian girl willingly underwent a a $26,000 surgery that broke both legs rendering her bedridden for 4 months, so they could slowly lengthen the bones and allow her to be slightly more than an inch taller.
That extra inch could possibly allow me to me tall enough to make the visor effective. (or maybe someone has invented an extender?) But while I hate the sun glare, I think I’ll sit on a phone book instead. I’d rather keep my leg bones intact. Plus I’d be horrible on bed rest, staring at my socks.
Every week I do a load or two of laundry. It’s neither my favorite nor least favorite chore. And, inevitably, with every load, are a few lonely, matchless, pairless socks.
Where do the socks go? They were there when I put them in the laundry basket. No matter how tired I am when throwing dirty laundry in the basket, I’m pretty sure I don’t forget to throw in both the socks I take off my feet. And yet somehow, inevitably, when I reach the point of my laundry-doing that I’m folding, I’m missing socks. I get that sometimes socks get separated in loads, or one gets left in the dryer when I’m pulling clothes out and gets an extra round in the dryer before finding its long lost match. Even then, though, when all the stray socks are paired, I am STILL.MISSING. SOCKS.
Seriously? I’d start washing them paired in a ball if it didn’t result in half washed, still-soaked-even-out-of-the-dryer-so-I’d-have-to -separate-them-to-dry-them-anyway socks.
When I’m feeling particularly OCD, I scour places for my missing socks. Under the bed. Behind the dryer. Around the basket. Mixed in the drawer. Sometimes, when I’m successful, I squeal a little with glee.
But I’m still missing socks.
That can only mean one thing.
A sock monster. The sock monster is stealing and eating my stray socks. Laughing while I search high and low for sock pairs. Beaming when I swear I just saw the matching sock right here.
I think he lives in my dryer. Just beware, sock monster. One day I’m gonna get sneaky, powder my floor with baking soda, and wake up looking for footprints. Then, when I find them, I’ll be a sock monster ninja. Or maybe I’ll just pretend to wash my socks, and the next sock you eat will be a stinky, dirty, filthy sock. One day, you’ll be eating your last sock.
Or – I guess I could just buy some new ones.