Why I Don’t Mind Getting Socks on Christmas
Finding joy in the beauty of everyday gifts
Researchers who deal with demarcating the line between childhood and adulthood no doubt have an abundance of scientific methods for doing so. I imagine these involve everything from running an fMRI machine to check for brain development to analyzing blood samples for markers of sexual maturity. However, I suggest alternative metric, perhaps less quantitative but redeemably simple. The transition from childhood to adulthood, I think, can be marked by the turn in attitudes toward receiving socks as a holiday gift.
As a kid, socks may well be coal without the explicit implication. Opening them feels like a thinly-veiled punishment for misbehavior. Socks are disappointingly functional. They stand in particular contrast to the big-ticket items, gaming consoles or talking stuffed animals which occupy the top of wish lists. Growing up, the allure of Christmas or birthdays comes from the opportunity to receive something which is impossible other times of the year— not socks, which we use every day and somehow always have. In my childlike naïveté, I remember having this weird sense that somehow, even if I were never given socks at all, my feet wouldn’t go cold.
For adults with disposable incomes and the convenience of one-click shopping on the other hand, rarely does the specialness of a holiday present stem from its scarcity. We immediately buy whatever items we need and many we do not. The gifts we appreciate most as we grow have some sort of novelty, or a personal touch — concert tickets or a hand-drawn portrait, for example. Mundane gifts no longer stand in such contrast to fantastical ones. When all gifts are varying degrees of mundane, the joy seems to seep out.
Socks, for me at least, buck the trend. I remember the disappointment as I feigned an appreciative smile upon opening yet another pair of patterned dress socks from my grandmother, as if twelve-year-old me cared the least bit about accessorizing my formal wardrobe with the latest colorful plaid pattern. But now, few things excite me more than opening a fresh pair on Christmas morning. Is this what it means to be getting old?
Hear me out — socks are pretty cool.
To start, there are different types of socks for different purposes. When I’m out for a run in the winter, I make sure to wear my favorite pair of mid-length running socks, just high enough that my ankles don’t chafe and bleed when a misplaced stride brings them in touch with the inside of my opposite shoe. Sometimes I opt for long, furry socks best reserved for lounging around the house, so frictionless they feel like ice skates on a smooth wooden floor. In the summer, I can’t go without those thin, breathable ones which wick off moisture. Some socks I know more in the abstract than from experience — most controversial perhaps are the no-show variety, often pulled from the drawer to accentuate some statement piece of footwear, so low cut that they provide the illusion of not wearing socks at all.
For a modest garment usually put on without a second thought, I have come to realize that I hold more than a few strong opinions about socks.
To start, I prefer socks without obvious branding. Something about a conspicuous swoosh or high-contrast logo leaves me feeling like a human billboard. Rest assured, I find something unsettling about an unmarked sock too. Having no trace of where, how, or by whom they were made, they leave me with an ambiguous feeling, as if by some witchcraft they started existing as socks all of a sudden, or maybe always had. This eeriness makes me steer clear of AmazonBasics, no matter how affordable its offering. My ideal middle ground is something with muted markings, small text or a lesser-known alternative logo, an easter egg of sorts for those who care enough to look closely.
When it comes to laundry, my approach centers upon laziness. Though others in my family believe strongly in returning all socks to outside-out after going through the wash, I’m more than okay with inverting them only at the time of use. While folding each individual sock over like pants or a t-shirt in order to preserve the elasticity of the ankle portion may be the optimal method according to online minimalist bloggers, I’m just fine with looping a pair together into a ball.
My approach to sock maintenance might be careless, but that doesn’t stop me from feeling a distinct pang of sadness whenever I step on some crag in the floor and rip open a small hole. My body becomes flooded with a wave of dread over something lost. The sight of my bare foot through the opening emphasizes my appreciation for the fabric’s understated perfectness I didn’t know I valued.
This holiday season, as my family and I shelter inside both from the cold and the virus, I find this appreciation extending to other small but important things. Sitting down to a warmly cooked meal or feeling the brisk winter air as I open the front door to pick up the newspaper, I feel a similar gratitude to that of having picked out the perfect socks for an occasion. These are experiences I have had countless times before, and can probably expect to have again. But their normalcy doesn’t make them feel any less wonderful.
Still, these circumstances are not what I expected for my life. Sometimes I daydream about an alternative, pandemic-free world and where and what I might be up to right about now if I lived in it. Travel, social gatherings, city life — it’s a little bit easier to forget about those vague hopes now. They appear less vivid than the things I don’t expect or anticipate, the subtle daily surprises that sneak up on me. Images of friends I can’t see anymore quickly fade, only to be replaced by their voices which I still can hear, whether through Zoom or good old phone call. The people I care about are still around, the odd way of communicating with them a pleasure I now find comfort in.
As my imaginative power becomes worn down by lockdown-induced monotony, I find myself less and less frequently missing experiences from the before-times. Imagined future realities cave away to reveal the concrete blessings that have stumbled into my life by chance — holiday lights or a good book.
I get the sense that things might go on for some time this way. The calendar flips over, days grow longer, and the world continues to change — but there are lessons to keep on learning, and discoveries hidden all around the recesses of ordinary life.
Like socks on Christmas morning, I look forward to more of these small gifts, grateful for all the warmth and comfort they provide.
