According to factoids compiled by grant-sucking researchers some 97.3 percent of modern kids now suffer from ADHD and it is caused by shitty food, videogames and possibly not enough parental interference in what used to be a normal childhood.
Phew, I’m happy I’m the age I am, having grown up in an era when kids who pissed around in class were merely deemed to be little bastards. And, I don’t think I am ADHD, I’m more OC. And I thought I would today’s blog to my obsessive-compulsive complex.
Don’t worry. It doesn’t put me into the realm of certifiable wackiness like TV’s Monk. And my obsession is straightforward and harmless. No, it doesn’t involve sex, I mean that one’s a given. No, mine is about socks.
An aspect of that obsession was that my socks had to match my shirt of the day. Red shirt meant red socks; blue meant blue socks (of the same hue), and I was even secure enough in my masculinity that I could wear pink socks with a pink shirt (when pink was voguish, even for males).
It was a joy for me to go into a haberdashery or department store and scope out the displays of socks. And, even though I had socks galore at home, I was always up for buying more. Well, that’s OK. Some men spend their money on cars, fine wines and beautiful women. I did that, too, way back when, but socks were my genuine vice of choice. If I was wearing contrasting or conflicting socks I felt a little unwell throughout the day.
There is a bit of logic to this illogic. I’m a Pisces. Pisceans have lousy feet. I have lousy feet, so foot-comfort is vital to my sense of well-being.
Thoughts about my OC sock acquisitions came to mind this morning when I was dressing and I donned a favored old pair of socks. Oh, they’re not yet worn out and I have a genuine affection for this pair. But, as I looked in my sock drawer – and I have an entire dresser drawer devoted to this item of apparel even now – I realized I have some socks that I hardly ever wear, but don’t have the heart to eject them. For whatever bizarre reason I find a security in knowing that my sock drawer is well stocked.
So, I have socks with tropical fish on them, and socks with black bears on them, socks with a Boticelli nude on them, socks with Mickey Mouse on them and a pair of very old socks with a psychedelic pattern on them. They’re worn, but I don’t have the heart to throw them out. I also have dress socks, and cold weather socks. I have a wonderful woollen pair of work socks that are kind of fluffy wintry wear.
My favorite brands of socks can only be found when I’m traveling. So, if I’m in the US I stock up on Gold Toes. They’re wonderful and last forever. If in the UK I head straight to Marks and Spencers and acquire some of their product to take home. Second only to Gold Toes in my esteem. This is a shameless GT plug and if they would like to send me a lifetime supply of their product I’d be ever so gratified.
I suppose you might consider my sock obsession to be a kind of fetish. But, it’s a harmless one. It’s not at all as antisocial as stealing women’s undies from their clothes baskets at the Laundromat, and it’s not as costly as the aforementioned fine wines, so I’m not troubled by it. Added to which, I am nowhere near as obsessed with matching shirt and socks as I once was and didn’t even go through a recovery program or attend boring meetings of a support group to be where I am today. I think I may be cured. Sort of. We won’t go into any other obsessions.