Once there was a new, brilliant white, short-cuffed, cotton, athletic sock hanging on a rack in a department store. He was a fine Sock, and quite proud of his sturdy construction, his seamless toe, and his promise to instantly whisk away perspiration. Not that he’d ever have to face that problem, because Sock knew he was destined for great things.
And he was right, for it wasn’t long before someone came to Sock’s rack and began searching through all the varieties that hung there. Sock hung almost trembling on his hook, trying hard to gleam his whitest. His efforts were soon rewarded when he heard, “Oh, this is exactly what I’m looking for,” and he was lifted off the rack. Sock mentally congratulated himself for having been white, short cuffed and made of cotton. Obviously, he was made the best of the best, and he was right.
Sock was taken home and placed in a drawer with many other socks. At first he was outraged that he was forced to mingle with the stained, stretched out, and (heaven help him) flimsy navy dress socks. What was his owner thinking to put such a fresh, clean specimen like himself with such a motley crew? He began to wonder how the other socks came to look as they did with holes in their toes and broken elastic in their cuffs. He promised himself to never become so complacent as to end up stretched out, stained and shapeless. He would stay pristine white and shapely no matter the odds.
And he was until the day his owner took him out of the drawer and pulled him on his foot for the very first time. Sock was so excited to finally fulfill his purpose, and prepared to shine his whitest for all to see. But his efforts were short-lived, for in a matter of moments, a big, dark boot was pulled on over the top him. The boot was smelly and close. It rubbed him at the ankle and toe, and completely covered Sock’s short cuff. All day long he suffered in the tight quarters of that boot. His perspiration-whisking abilities were sorely tested, but he rallied himself with thoughts that surely this was just a onetime experience. Maybe socks needed breaking in like shoes and the next time things would be easier. He was comforted and dreamt of the washing he’d receive at the end of the day.
But the washing didn’t come that day; nor did it come the next. When sock had finally been removed at the end of his first long day on the job, he had accidentally slipped under the bed and disappeared from view. For two days he sulked on the floor. He now bore large black stains on his underside. His cuff felt overstretched. He was worried about a spot on his heel that felt thinner, and he knew the smell that made the dust bunnies cower at the far end of the bed was his own. He complained to himself of his ill treatment, but was relieved that none of the other socks could see him in his current state.
Then one blessed day, he was rescued and dropped in a washing machine. He thought, “Finally all will come right and I’ll be my lovely white self again!” He was very happy until he realized that other dirty clothes were being tossed on top of him. “Agh”, he thought to himself, “Don’t they know they’re only supposed to wash me with like colors? What if that red shirt bleeds on me?” And suddenly he remembered that no one had applied stain remover to his underside! Now he would be gray forever.
And he was right. As days went on, Sock came to resemble all the other worn out, used up socks that dwelt in the drawer. He was so often worn inside the dirty black boot, that so soon his heel was thread bare. His elastic cuff began to sag, and his general appearance was gray and sorrowful. Sock chided himself for having foolishly thought he was something special and could keep himself new.
And he was right, but only partly right. For one day, Sock was pulled out of the drawer by very different hands. Small hands carried him away and pushed a nail through his cuff. “That’s going to leave a hole,” thought Sock to himself. But then it hardly mattered anymore really. Still, he couldn’t help but be curious as to what this new task would be, and hope within him stirred. That is, until he found himself hanging from the mantelpiece—out in the open for all to see. Sock was ashamed of his saggy middle and gray hew. This was not what he was meant for. Why did they humiliate him so? Sock hung limp and completely dejected.
And little hands ripped Sock off the nail and hugged him close before eagerly digging through his contents. In wonder, Sock watched the pleasure each new item brought to the face of the small one. He wished he could stay there forever giving up new treasures for the impatient little hands. Never had he felt so useful and valuable. He was still gray and worn out, but it hadn’t mattered in the least. The gifts he had given had brought joy to the child. Sock never wanted to go back to that drawer, or worse, that black, dirty boot. Couldn’t he just stay here where he was loved and appreciated?
Apparently the small one had the same wish, for she was asking, “Daddy, can I keep this sock always and hang up again on the mantelpiece?” Sock held his breath and then heard Daddy’s reply. “Sorry, honey. You’ll have to find somewhere else to store your treasures. I need that sock.”
Sock was startled. He was needed? Sock realized that there were many other socks that could fill his role, but his owner didn’t want to let him go. He remembered the day he had been chosen, and his owner’s words, “This is exactly what I’m looking for.” He had been chosen, and that made all the difference. Out of all the hundreds of other socks on that rack, his owner had picked him. Sock suddenly realized that stains, holes and stretched out elastic could be worn like medals--proof that he had been chosen, and chosen again…and again.
And he was right!
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