We all have those mundane tasks that make up the rhythm of our lives. For some, it’s washing dishes. For others, it’s mowing the lawn. For me, it’s laundry. Yes, that weekly (or, let’s be honest, bi-weekly) grapple with Mount Washmore sends my mind down some truly bizarre rabbit holes.
From Dirty Socks to the Meaning of Life
Just the other day, I was staring into the abyss of my laundry basket, contemplating the sheer volume of clothing I wear in a week (spoiler alert: it’s a lot), when it hit me. What does it all mean? Like, here I am, meticulously sorting socks (because, yes, I’m that person), and for what? So I can wear them again and repeat the cycle? Is this the circle of life Simba was singing about?
We’ve all been there. You put two socks in the washer, but somehow, only one emerges from the dryer. It’s like the Bermuda Triangle, but for socks. Where do they go? Do they have tiny sock passports and decide to elope? Are there sock monsters living in my dryer vents? The world may never know.
The truly frustrating part is that the remaining sock, now a lonely bachelor, is basically useless. I mean, what am I going to do with a single sock? Wear it on my hand like a sock puppet? Start a sock-puppet theater dedicated to solving the mystery of its missing mate? The possibilities are endless, yet strangely unappealing.