Socks, Love, and the Secret of True Happiness

When my sisters and I were children, our mother used to tell us about her freshman roommate at the University of Michigan. This young woman belonged to a wealthy Midwestern family and arrived at the girls' dormitory with far more luggage than the single trunk my mother had shipped from her home in Brooklyn. The roommate's habit was to wear a pair of socks once, then to throw them out. Her mother or her mother's housekeeper would replenish the supply weekly, by mail. "And they were angora," my mother told us every time she repeated the story. We marvelled and laughed at the ridiculous extravagance.

Now, decades later, I often think of this erstwhile roommate. Now, these many years on, I think differently, very differently.  I have in fact come to believe that she, or her mother, or their housekeeper, had in fact discovered the secret of true, if costly, happiness: wear socks once and throw them out.

Do I dare?

There must be a better way. As my middle child completes his university applications, I ponder what advice I might give him when he goes. It just might be 'only ever buy exactly the same socks in the exact same color'. Brown, or black, or white. Doesn't matter. Choose one. Stick with it. Angora optional. Because, I will tell my bright and precious boy, I know that as you spread your wings and discover the world, you will have better things to do with your time than pair socks. You can't throw them out after every wearing because you unfortunately do not have a mother who will send weekly replacements. Plus, the environment.

Be assured, though, I shall tell him, that while your mother may fail on the hosiery front, she will, constantly and continuously, replenish your supply of love: every day, every hour, every single second.