I was chatting with a friend at the gym a few years ago, bemoaning the fact that I was going to have to learn how to darn my hand-knitted socks, and she suggested that that may not be a bad thing, since that meant that the recipients of those socks were “sock worthy.”
A few years ago, I realized that I missed having something to keep my hands busy in the evenings, so I decided to learn how to knit. Not just to knit, but to knit actual socks.
Honestly, I had a friend who knitted socks, and she seemed to derive so much satisfaction from the process.
Everyone wears socks – it’s a perfect personal, meaningful gift.
Knitting a single pair of socks is a relatively quick, small project. A sock is a small enough project to stick in your handbag to work on while waiting at the doctor’s office or the DMV, and the materials are relatively inexpensive. The true value of a pair of hand-knitted socks lies in the work invested.
And not surprisingly, there are people who “get it” – those who understand and value the many hours and the thousands of stitches involved. These people are sock worthy. I will happily knit socks for their birthdays, and darn those socks when they become a little too well-loved.
My husband, who wears my creations to work and shows them off to his co-workers, is sock worthy. I will occasionally see him sporting a worn spot on his heel or the sole of his foot and intercept those socks for repair after they’re washed and before they make it to his sock drawer.
A dear friend, who’s always cold, now has her own personalized socks – with a separate toe, so she can keep her feet warm in her after-work cozy flip-flops. And every time she wears them, she looks down at her feet and laughs for the joy of warm toes. She is sock worthy, for sure.
My mother, who not only wears the socks I made for her, but has been known to swipe my niece’s socks and my father’s scarf – definitely sock worthy.
The niece, however, who neither notices nor cares that her socks are missing, is not getting another pair from me.
I’m willing to give my son, whose lone sock I found, all wet and nasty, behind the washing machine, another chance. He’s my flesh and blood, after all. It’s the least I can do.