And now a group of random thoughts on today’s topic.
The best socks I own are a rich, thick wool. They are orange with brown reinforcement at the heel and toe. They are fuzzy and snuggly and perfect in every way. I love those socks. I love them a whole lot.
I’ve always had cold feet. I remember sleeping over at a friend’s house and her remarking about my habit of wearing socks to bed. I used to think it was because I was so skinny but time and age have amended my physique. I’m not the wiry girl I once was.
These days it’s easier to blame my cold feet on age. I blame quite a lot on age though I’m only barely knocking at the door to 50. I’m thinking I need to pace myself here- make a list, set a goal or two. For now I strive now for comfort, not just warm feet but actual physical comfort. I eat things I want to eat and think little about it later. I wear clothes that fit well regardless of the fashion trends. Don’t even get me started on shoes. Those thick-soled gym shoes my grandmother used to wear for her daily walks around the duck pond are looking mighty sensible.
I’m way too young for this.
At the Old Navy store today I found a nice wool sweater, black and cable knit. It hits me just at the waist, maybe a bit below and the sleeves come past my wrists. It’s important that the sleeves are long enough. It bothers me when they hit above the wrist. It’s uncomfortable. I find myself pulling down the sleeves on everything, down to my knuckles, down to my fingertips, stretching to cover and burrow in.
The nice kid at the register asked me about my day. He asked what plans I have for the rest of my day and I was stuck for an answer. I had no idea how to tell him in 30 words or less my plans for the day. I muttered something about picking up children at school and the shortcomings of unstructured time ahead. He asked how many children I have and I said, “Four- 10, 12, 14 and 17.” He was taken aback or at least he pretended to be taken aback. How many times will he hear this same litany from haggard folks such as myself, dragging black cable knit sweaters from the clearance rack to his countertop. Still, I was happy for his surprise. It hits this little affirmation button in me, like a mouse getting a treat when he runs the maze correctly.
At home I tried on the sweater because I never try things on at the store. It’s the lighting or the little room or the uncomfortable reality of the full length mirror on the aging body. The sweater fits well, I pull down the sleeves a little even so just for good measure. I pull out at the waist, at the collar. I find the shape of it, feel the light scratch of it, wrap my arms around myself and drown in the comfort of it. Winter’s here, wool’s on hand…