"I grow old. . . I grow old. . .
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled," quoth T. S. Eliot.
"I grow old. I grow old. I shall wear footwear of Joseph Abboud," declares Monsieur le Kokonuts.
The sock drawer (top one of the bureau) is populated by old socks. Most are black. Some are white. The black pairs had served as dress socks. They were all tight, a struggle to put on. Many had nascent or fully realized holes.
The other day I went to Marshall's and splurged. I bought three pairs of Docker's socks (shades of brown and green; a radical innovation) $6.99, and three pairs of Joseph Abboud socks, similarly tan and brown and pale green. $9.99, a stylish revolution.
Let me tell you. These socks glide on like water.
Wearing them is like walking on air, compared to the peasant socks I was formerly wedded (or welded) to, sweatily. Euuuuuuuuh.
A footly pleasure. (We shall not at this juncture veer off into fetishistic digressions, for once.)
Who knew socks could be so stylish and functional?
In what other areas of my life am I missing out on such pleasures?