“Go to bed!”
Three words delivered with the finality
of a thunderclap, sometimes from mom, sometimes from dad, sometimes from both
at the same time and I’m left standing there wondering what it was that I had
done so wrong that I would be sent off to such a place with such doomed
finality. Exiled, I’m being exiled. And I won’t stand for it. That response of
course is never voiced because arguing about it would only lead to further
punishment.
But when did bed become a punishment? It
certainly isn’t when we exit the womb. The brand new bouncing bundle of joy
rarely complains and will often go to bed unasked. Of course the baby is
carried there rather than sent there because it can neither walk, crawl nor
climb at this early juncture. The little one spends more time asleep than awake
in those oh so early days. I’m not sure what the percentage value is to sleep
versus wake however.
I’m terrible at math.
The infant worries not about such
things. It knows that it is tired and thus follows the proper protocols.
More or less.
The baby may not argue, but it does
gripe. Most of the time the parents (whether novice or seasoned) know not what
the newborn is actually saying, but both nod their heads in complete
understanding and offer up their best educated guess.
“He’s tired.”
“He’s hungry.”
“His foot hurts”
“What?” This one uttered in unison.
“What?” This one uttered in unison.
When life begins, the bed is a place of
refuge, peace, solitude. Books are written about it.
Goodnight Moon.
Life moves forward.
As we grow older, bed becomes something
else. Oh, not a place to be avoided, but somewhere that we are in no rush to
get to. Suddenly, the day is not long enough and there is the magic of the
night, the late night, the early morning hours that beckon further exploration.
Bed becomes overrated. Last call, bars close, late night breakfast (wow, do I
miss White Castle) and finally home as daylight starts to rise.
Goodnight sun.
There’s an old saying that we have all
heard before. Time flies when you’re having fun. No argument there, but I could
embellish on that sentiment by saying that time flies when you’ve had your fun.
Life moves forward.
The night no longer holds the magic and
untold pleasures it once had, not on such grand a scale anyway. Your bed calls
to you at the end of each day and you find yourself heeding the invitation at
an hour where once upon a time you were just heading out for the evening.
Essentially, you find yourself back where you began, the two ends of the circle
well met.
Socks are similar.
Think about it.
I know I have.
In the earliest days of my education, I
wore colored socks to school. Colored socks were cool. Colored socks were in.
Blue ones, red ones, green ones too. Now don’t go thinking my memory is that
good. I just have the pictures to prove it. Little me forever captured in
Polaroid pics and on display in old family photo albums. As elementary edged
towards Junior High, colored socks were no longer in fashion and all I wore
were white. This continued through college and into my early working years
until corporate called. Colored socks are back!
Oh cool! This pair will match with my
red watch.
I’m into colored watches too.
Because of my newfound love of socks,
laundry day is now no longer dreaded. It never was really. I enjoy the time
spent at the Laundromat. I get a lot of reading done there without the
commonplace interruptions that would otherwise take place at home. The only
thing that gets in the way really is the unloading of the washing machine (reading
begins when the machine spins); the loading of the dryer and then the
subsequent unloading and folding before heading home. When you think about it,
the only part of laundry I don’t enjoy that much is actually doing the laundry. I’ve sort of
rectified that however and turned it into a sporting event.
“Welcome laundry fans. It’s the
beginning of another spring day here in beautiful Queens, NY, though winter is
still a little reluctant to let go, isn’t that right Stan?”
“Brrr, you said it, Rod, but ol’ man winter
is no match for dryer number 7, running hot and reaching the end of the 42
minute duration that our challenger has set it for.”
Rod laughs. “Well, if nothing else, you
know that the clothes in there will come out dry with no extra quarters
required, but let’s talk about game play here for a minute and what we can
expect today. It seems to me, there may have to be a change in strategy here,
if he is to break this six week losing streak.”
Stan nods his head. “I agree, but let’s
face it, this whole thing is really kind of one sided when you come right down
to it. With women’s clothing being so bright and colorful, he really doesn’t
stand much of a chance. The human eye is always drawn to the playful and
dazzling hues first, which is why each time he reaches into the laundry cart,
the article of clothing that comes out first always belongs to the female of
the species.”
Rod, tsk, tsks and adds, “And it’s all
downhill from there. It’s remarkable that even with some of his own clothing
right there within reach, it always seems to come out ladies first.”
“Maybe chivalry is not dead,” Stan
guffaws, and the two of them share a masculine chuckle.
The tension builds (not really) as the
dryer is emptied and the cart rolled over to the nearest folding station.
“He’s rubbing his hands,” one of them
(it doesn’t really matter which) says in a whisper. Now the game has taken on
the deft seriousness of a chess match rather than the ribald rivalry of heated
competition. “He’s reaching, reaching, here it comes, here it comes and –”
“YES!” the other one (it still doesn’t
matter who) shouts. “Yes! That right there is indeed a male sock clutched in
his hand. Look at the way those aquamarine and orange stripes shine. Oh, well
played, well played!”
The camera zooms out now, and the
laundry in the cart represents every ROYGBIV in the color spectrum.
“Wait a minute,” I think it’s Stan that
says that. “Are those palm tree socks I see?”
“Well yes. And look over there. I would
venture to say that those are flamingos peeking out of the corner. Pink ones!
Wow, that is a bold move right there. Pink flamingo socks. What color do you
think those would go with?”
Rod laughing, “I don’t know, but it
takes a certain kinda guy to make that work I’ll bet.”
The voices in my head fade away and the
folding commences.
Stop shaking your head, dear reader, it
isn’t cheating. I just…stacked the deck a bit, evened up the odds. The winning
is not actually in the winning though. The colored sock scheme proves
beneficial in other ways too. I’m a lot more careful with my socks now, and as
a result, one does not go inexplicably AWOL into that great laundry twilight
zone somewhere. At the end of the day, each pair is present and accounted for.
And when I climb into bed that evening,
it is with a smile of satisfaction upon my face.
Goodnight Socks.
