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Some Things Never Change

After 37 years, there is at least one certainty that never grows old: Eddie, the sock thrower. 

And as a result, I have been dubbed the "Sock Maid". 

Now I know this does not sound like an elegant or even prestigious status, but I own this title. 

Let me explain.

There is a nightly ritual that occurs between the time Eddie rolls into bed and covering himself with the sheets. 

He tugs and pulls, aims and launches first one sock and then the other towards the general vicinity of the laundry hamper. Depending on the time of night, lighting and general strength of the tired heave, they can land up anywhere in the room. 

I've found lonely soles under the bed, behind the armoire, hanging from lamps; even in the plants.

When he first started this fling, hurl and chuck, I was tempted to leave those separated pairs just to see how many would pile up and for how long. However, after a day or so, I realized that if I left them to their awkward landings, over time, I would have piles of mismatched, unrelated, colorful clusters of foot ornaments and decorations. Besides, the methodical (some call it OCD) part of me finds it impossible to walk past a stray right or left, balled up, dirty sock just begging to be placed in its proper place. So what do I do? Yup. I pick up that smelly, turned-inside-out piece of fabric and then I search for it's companion. 

I help them find their way to the wash. 

Every. Single. Morning. 

After 13,505 bends and picks you'd think I'd have six pack abs, but I assure you, I have a ways to go as I've had a few days off for holidays and good behavior.

I know. I know. My feminist sisters out there, all for equal rights, will most likely set up a coup to liberate me from such an "atrocity". They are horrified by the idea! But let it be known here and now. I like picking up his socks. It's not a forced drudgery. In fact, it's a rather mindless act; I automatically collect and deposit, collect and deposit on my way to my usual morning rituals.

 I think of it this way: every lobbed sock in the evening gives me the hope that I will wake up the next morning beside my mate; every stray sock I save in the morning is the start of a new day with Eddie.

Like those socks, Eddie and I are a pair. We may get worn down, tossed and separated. We may get holes that need darning and mending; stones that need wresting. But in the end, we belong together and find our way back to each other. 

We're a couple. A set. A twosome. 

He puts more Carpe into my Diem.

I am thankful for every moment I have with this amazing man. He sees my flaws yet he focuses on my heart. 

As a duo, we spend hours talking. And talking. And talking. 

Ours is a simple life: we eat, we walk, we nap we read. Together. 

I feel grateful and blessed; I've been married to the same man for 37 years and have never felt closer to him. 

In fact, I can't imagine a life without him and when I think about it, I realize I've always wanted to be married. To him.

Like a million washings, this is a transformation that has taken place over time. It is the result of a million disagreements, a million apologies, a million kindnesses, a million tears, a million laughs and smiles. 

Our life together has washed us into a soft, aging, near-perfect fit. I am still falling in love and yes, 

I'll always be Eddie's Girl.

So today, on our anniversary, just to prove I find joy in castaway hosiery, I think I'll give Eddie a new pair of socks... just to keep it going.

~ Love like there is no tomorrow

 and if tomorrow comes, 

Love again ~

 Max Lucado