A year ago, somewhere between Halloween and Thanksgiving, there was a slight crisis on the home front. It was during this time that Madame Dewey realized she was missing a stocking. The default go-to response at other dire moments when something is missing was to ask me, “What have you done with… (said object?) In this case it was a missing silk stocking. A white one; not a dark one.
Now, I like a mystery as much as the next fellow, but my real preference is what Miss Christie called a “cozy” murder mystery, not an errant sock. I watch the British ones; sometimes the French if it comes with subtitles; and have written a few. Socks are never included in these sagas.
The idea of “The Mystery of the Purloined Stocking” had a catchy title to it, but I don’t think I could do much with it. Besides, I was now commissioned to go on a quest.
My default method, when confronted with serious challenges such as a missing sock is to go for a walk around the block to cogitate and come up with an answer. When I headed for the door I was advised a missing sock did not warrant a hike – just find it.
Still, there was no reason to break a tradition, especially since the weather was still good. Before long I had a simple solution to this mystery of the missing footwear, and asked, “That wasn’t the sock with a hole in the toe, the one you threw out, is it?” Sadly, none of her stockings had gone into the circular floor file.
As a completely irrelevant aside: my sock drawer is full of single socks. The good news is that when one sock out of a pair is pitched, since they don’t mate for life, there is a reasonable chance it can soon be re- partnered with another orphaned sock. To that end, I make sure all of my socks are black and the same make and model.
I began my investigation, starting with a look-see behind the washing machine and the dryer in case it had somehow flipped out of a machine and gone into hiding among the dust bunnies. Nor had it tumbled out of the laundry basket, slithered under a bed, or anywhere else. For better or worse, we do not have small furry four-legged companions who might choose to use it as a chew toy, unlike a family in Portland Oregon who had a full-scale Great Dane who had eaten 43 socks. He had to have abdominal surgery, just in case you are wondering, and is doing okay now.
We asked the housekeeper to keep an eye out for the errant garment. Now, on occasion she has been known to accidently vacuum up something that should not be vacuumed. I made my inquiries. Not a chance. She had not done the deed, she assured me, and I believed her.
I proposed taking apart the washing machine to see if it somehow got mangled by the agitator. Madame reminded me that this machine does not have an agitator, so I said I could pull out the dryer and see if it managed to pulled through the lint thingy into the stove pipe that exited through the wall on the sunrise side of the house. That proposal agitated Madame who suggested it would be far less expensive to buy a pair of socks than hire a professional to put the washer and dryer back together.
To be honest, greater minds than mine have been at a complete flummox by a sock that has gone AWOL. I shudder at the thought of the countless hours reasonable intelligent men and women have devoted to their search for one sock. If the late English physicist Stephen Hawking were still with us, maybe he would tell us that it a missing sock is anecdotal proof of the existences of very miniature black holes that magically absorb socks past the event horizon.
Indeed, science might give us the answer. I am no intellectual slouch too proud to ask for help. I turned to the Artificial Intelligence website to get a physics-based answer. It took less than a minute, and I had a formula on my screen. I freely share this brilliance with you so you can use it to fob off someone wanting you to find their sock.
(L(P x F) + C(T x S) – (P x A) = missing sock
L stands for laundry size, which is determined by the number of people (P) in the household multiplied by the number of washings (frequency or F) per week.
C stands for complexity or: a. the number of dials and buttons on the control panel of both the washer and dryer, b. the amount of care that must be taken to add the right fluids and start the machine, c. the amount of separating that must be done in advance (i.e. colors, fabrics, temperatures) and so on.
T = the types of washing done each week
P represents one’s enthusiasm about doing the laundry, ranging from 1 (I hate this job and when I get rich enough I’m going to hire someone to do this for me) to 5 (WOW! This is the most fun I’ve had since this time last week. I wish I could do this more often.)
A means the level of attention devoted to do the laundry each and every week or several times a week for years and decades on end.
Obviously, the P and A portions of this formula are so variable that it throws everything off-kilter, just like too many heavy sheets on one side of the tub in the spin cycle.
However, this formula does teach us one thing: The more laundry you do, the more routine it becomes, and it eventually gets to the point where your mind is away with the fears, which is right when the Black Hole slips past you, grabs the sock, and you have no idea where it went.
I am no physicist, but I will give a bit of pastoral counseling here: Some things are a mystery. We have big mysteries and we have small mysteries in life. Missing socks are small mysteries. We must learn to embrace these mysteries and make a leap of faith. Someday, perhaps not in our lifetime, perhaps not in this, but a parallel universe someone will find a single sock somewhere. It might be the one you lost on washing day. You can keep it as a reminder of the time you invested in reading this column.
