Socks are the most romantic garments. They pair up young, and grow threadbare together, gathering as many memories as the dog hairs and motes of dust that try to stick to them over the course of their lifetimes.
They are traditionalists for the most part; they try not to judge the stockings for being racy (with their polyamorous suspender belt love), or the tights for being nude, or the toe socks for being so rebellious, but they do like things cosy and safe. They are at their happiest, curled up with their only darling, while they talk of imperative things in the sock drawer, and their fellow foot workers snooze beside their own spouses, somewhere nearby.
Laundry day is the time when they are most in peril and it is as exciting and daunting for them as being woken once a week for skydiving might be for you. The washing part is rather like swimming the channel tunnel and the older socks comfort the younger ones with pirate stories and the uplifting lilt of sea shanties.
Then, there is the drying, which some socks quite like because it makes them picture hot balmy holidays they have been worn on. They recall the smell of coconuts and sun tan lotion, and the feel of sand between them and their favourite shoe. The shoe-sock working relationship is, of course, legendary.
Many a loafer has taken a gingham check sock into its reassuring embrace and taught it all it knows about their noble career in Human Support.
Other socks do not like the dryer. They have heard the stories. They know that sometimes twelve socks go in, but only eleven come out. Those tales are true; Occasionally,a sock simply vanishes during that hallowed journey to dryness. There is nothing to be done. There is no way of helping its husband or its wife. They will never find a partnership like that again.
There is a hope though, for the darned and the seamless. A legend, to comfort those who have suffered that terrible blow. It is said that once upon a time, after her sockmate had vanished, one brave sock made the arduous journey from the drawer to the dryer, late at night and alone, to face one more cycle.
She was never seen again, and, the story goes that she found the place lost socks go to, that she slipped through some hidden door or portal as she spun, and straight into the soft embrace of her waiting love.
(Love Socks title is courtesy of Kat Sigel. It's a pun, see)