My Socks Grow Legs and Walk Away

The Art of Losing Laundry (and My Sanity)

Let’s talk about it. The Great Sock Exodus. The Bermuda Triangle of Laundry.

Every wash day, I put pairs in the machine like a responsible adult doing my best—and somehow only one comes back. The other? Gone. Vanished. No ransom note, no goodbye.

Where do they go? Are they hiding in some sock speakeasy behind the dryer, sipping lint martinis and plotting new ways to irritate humanity? Is there a wormhole under the washing drum that only cotton-poly blends can access?

I swear they multiply when I don’t need them and disappear when I do. Sometimes months later one turns up inside a pillowcase like it’s been on vacation. Great. Now I’m going to check all the pillowcases because I think one’s hiding in there. Thanks a lot, brain. We just created more work for me today.

Every now and then I’ll dig through the sock drawer, spot a familiar pattern, and think “Oh yeah, finally found its mate!” Nope. Another impostor. Another liar. Another single pretending it belongs.

At this point, I should probably just go buy more socks. Honestly, I should’ve invested in a sock company years ago. As for my art supplies, they never disappear—they breed. They multiply overnight like caffeinated rabbits. I lose socks, but somehow end up with five extra paintbrushes I don’t remember buying.

And you know what’s really going to happen? The day I finally give up and buy replacements for the naughty ones that grew legs and walked away—that’s the day they’ll all come strolling back like, “Oh never mind, I’m back, hee hee.”Then suddenly my sock drawer goes from 30 pairs to 60, just like that. They reappear at the most random times, smug little fabric ghosts.

And if that wasn’t weird enough—this morning I came downstairs to fill my water bottle and found six doves having a full-blown party on my porch railing. Just hanging out like they owned the place. I didn’t get a picture because by the time I grabbed my phone, they saw me and took off. Maybe they know where the socks went. Probably holding the meeting.

So yeah. My socks grow legs, walk away, and return only when it's too late. Just like bad exes, good paintbrushes, and apparently... doves.

The Ballad of the Missing Sock

They never make it out, not one in ten,

The portal’s beneath, not behind—again.

They slip through the floor with a flutter and grin,

Right under the washer, gone with the spin.

The dryer’s accused, but it’s all a ruse,

The washer’s the culprit, old and amused.

And somewhere below, in the hum and the heat,

My socks are dancing, mocking my defeat.

– From the desk of Disorderly Studio, where even the socks are creative.