Winter is hard for me. Not because it is the opposite of summer, but because I am not a fan of socks. Ankle socks, knee socks, thigh-highs or tights. To me, all were made in the devil’s workshop.
For years I have tried to get around my trouble with socks by purchasing brightly-colored and patterned specimens. The thought was that they would make me happy and I would see beyond my issues. Several were made in Paris and made me feel a wee bit cosmopolitan, until I began to feel like I was heating up like a house afire. My all time favorites were made in Vermont and are bright, cotton, mismatched fantasies.
My toes need to move. I need to feel cool air on my lower extremities. Things that bind feel like they are holding me back – never my favorite emotion. Suffocation starts to set in the minute fabric is pulled past my arch. The list goes on and on.
I have discussed this condition with my primary care doctor, and, after confirming nothing truly physical – internal or external – was causing this, I was again met with “the stare.” The look isn’t one where he is accusing me of mental health issues. The sight he rested on me pretty much said, “Just don’t wear socks.” Duh.
However, snow is the real problem, and it was easily mastered when I purchased my Frye boots with shearling lining last year. The boots tromp with me through the snow, and my bare feet are free to roam in cushy protection.
Now, don’t get me started on how lipstick makes me feel….