My red-headed friend who wishes to remain anonymous for fear of reader retaliation felt so strongly about the events below that she insisted on writing a blog post about it. It's out of my hands. I'm sorry.
Sock.
Noun
1. Archaic: a low shoe or slipper
2. A knitted or woven covering for the foot usually worn under shoes and extending above the ankle and sometimes to the knee
3. A shoe worn by actors in Greek and Roman comedy
Picture this…a sweet Georgia peach (that’s me!) transplanted into the HUGE state of Texas by her Army husband. I started a new job in this new land. Ninety-nine percent of my new fellow co-workers did not speak to me or bother to acknowledge my presence. It was a lonely place. At the end of my first week of work, a petite blonde sweetly asked me to lunch. WHAT?!?!?! Someone talked to me AND was OK with being seen in public with me…WINNER! The cherry on top of this delicious ice cream sundae is that this petite blonde seemed to be totally normal. Or so I thought...
For our first lunch together, Angela and I went to Chipotle (GMO-free heaven). Yes, I said Angela. Angela Ezzell. Pink Nostalgia Angela. As we walked out of the office headed to lunch, I had my first glimpse of her weirdness. Angela was holding her cellphone (Iphone 5, white, no case) and pulled open her purse to put it away. Sounds normal, right? Instead of tossing her cellphone in her purse haphazardly or putting it in a cellphone-sized inner pocket, Angela pulled out a (…wait for it…wait for it…) SOCK. I averted my eyes and ignored this transgression. I mean, really, who was I to be picky? This was the ONLY person who wanted to voluntarily talk to me at work. If I ever wanted to appear socially normal or desirable in my new work environment, it was proper form to pretend I never saw it. Never saw it.
We had a great lunch full of all the normal pleasantries exchanged for two new acquaintances. One lunch turned into two, three…now too many to count. After realizing Angela appreciated and respected my love of sarcasm…I knew now was the time. We were heading out to lunch again. Again she pulled out the sock and placed her phone inside. She casually put it back in her purse. I finally asked, “Um, did you just put your phone in a sock?” She smiled and said, “Yes.” I further pressed, “Um, why did you put your phone in a sock?”
I had pondered this question after seeing her sock trick on numerous occasions:
• Did she have a rubber allergy? Most cases contain some form of rubber…maybe she would break out in hives?
• Had she fallen on hard times financially? Those Otterboxes are wicked expensive…I acknowledge that and can appreciate (maybe) a budget-friendly sock.
• Had she recently broken her last case and was waiting for her personalized case to arrive in the mail? (I’m from the South…if it ain’t breathing, we monogram it.)
• Had she grown up in the moonshining hills of West Virginia where people put all valuables in socks and then bury them?
Back to Angela’s response: “I don’t like cases. They’re too bulky. This sock (an athletic crew sock – picture a GoldToe sock, but pink) protects my phone. It protects the screen and the thickness of the sock protects it from falls.” As my mouth continues to gape, she continues with, “AND, if I ever pull the sock out upside down by accident, the heel catches the phone so it doesn’t fall out. It’s like it’s designed for phone-carrying.” She smirks and appears to be proud of herself. I admire that. Let your freak flag fly and own it. Oh, she OWNS it.
I asked if others know of her ‘sock.’ They do. I asked if they find it odd. They do. One day J (you know, Angela’s boo) was doing laundry and he threw some socks in her lap and said, “Can you put your cellphone cases up?” LOVE IT! I’ll occasionally talk to Angela about her sock. I’ll occasionally, and obnoxiously, bring up her sock in mixed company. From my informal polling, most, if not all, are on my side of the fence regarding Angela’s sock…a total freak flag. She defends it with a strong fervor. She has repeatedly come to me and said she went to lunch/dinner/etc with so and so and they think the sock was a GREAT idea. Lies, all lies.
Now you will never look at Angela or socks in the same light. You’re welcome.
