Sock Doctor

I'm getting older.

I've passed the threshold of age twenty seven. Yes, I'm closer to 30 now than 25. People have told me "Nate, there's no turning back. You're 27 now is when you'll start feeling older." They were right.

Do you know how to tell if you're getting old? Socks.

When you buy a new pair of socks, a tiny, plastic connector binds the two wads of sock fabric together. It's a pinky-sized handcuff between the two sock twins. It's annoying and preventing freedom with your cotton friends.

The test of age: are you a cutter or a tearer? Do you rip apart your new purchase, or do you carry it into the kitchen and perform a scissor-against-sock operation? This, my friend, will help you determine if you're getting older.

I used to be a tearer. I did. When you're young, resolution is immediate. You have new socks in your hand and they must be on your feet instantly. Your feet are bare and time is running out! You rip the socks apart, fall down on your butt, stick out your feet, and finally have socks on your feet. Who cares tears line the side of the sock; you've done it! You're young and socked!

Now, though, on the 30 side of the 20s, you might notice you've converted to cutting. You don't tear. Because there is risk involved now. You and your liability-only-insured automobile burned precious petroleum and a gorgeous Saturday afternoon to tread through red lights to the nearest Target to buy some new gym socks, and fucking god dammit shit, if these socks or anything withing a mile radius of these socks obtain the slightest imperfection, you will lose your shit.

But that won't happen. Because you're responsible now. You're 27.

Instead, you carefully carry the socks into the kitchen. Here, there is roaming white counter space. Multi-purpose cleaner labeled "green" has gracefully blessed these counters for such an emergency as sock surgery. You lay the socks down and turn the microwave light on not to setting Night but Day, as these are your newest gym socks. You slowly take out the kitchen scissors from your multi-hundred dollar culinary set that you asked for last Christmas because you wanted to feel creatively artsy. You stick your fingers into the sock organs, searching for the lethal plastic handcuff that was just previously so conspicuous. Finding it, you hug the scissor blades around what little plastic exposure exists. "I don't know what I'm doing, I can barely get a good grip, what if I slip and cut the sock itself, this is insane!"

Snip.

Thank god.

You've successfully removed the plastic obstruction in your new pair of socks. They're fine! Hold them up to the light, there is no sign of tear anywhere! HAHA, look at you! You're 27 and have a pair of new socks!

Now fold them up into your organized armoire, ready for your planned gym visit in three months and turn 30 already. You go.