Death match. That’s the only plausible explanation I can find for why I repeatedly take pairs of socks to the laundromat and return with unmatched sets. I check shirt sleeves, pants, pockets. I run my hands around the insides of the washer and dryer walls, searching in vain. I walk the route from our Coshocton apartment to the car, and from the car to the laundromat.
The only remaining solution is…Thunderdome!
In a fight to the finish, apocalyptic style, Max blue crew sock faces Blaster blue crew sock. In a thirty minute cycle, Blaster is tossed relentlessly until he disintegrates in a puff of lint. When all the clothes are folded and the dryer turned by hand, a single, blue, Mad Max crew sock awaits my foot.
Or, maybe my sock is in a holding cell of the dryer, and I haven’t figured out how to negotiate the release. I’m Auntie Entity and I haven’t shouted loud enough:“Master Blaster run Laundromat!” “Lift the Embargo”
But in the end, despite all the pleading and searching and death match reverie, eventually you just have to let the sock go.
Seriously, where do they go?