Review: Ankle Socks

I remember ankle socks like it was yesterday. A cool autumn-ish yesterday where we still where irony was lost on us, most dials would turn to the left (as opposed to all dials) , and people still feared the Kraken.

With this baby on the way, our whole half-word is upside down while our half whole world remains staunch in its observation. Sure and technically yes, we are still wearing ankle socks. BUT- we're not calling them ankle socks. They are just socks to us now. The novelty is more than worn off. It has disintegrated into a taste bud on a fly's tongue. Not the good taste bud that can taste hair and fear perspiration, but the even more minuscule one that recognizes between hot or cold, steam or smoke, and acid-wash or post-acid-wash.

Exposed flesh is a young man's game. It was an old women's game. Somewhere down the line between women who posed in Playboy having to find other sources of income, and Astronauts having to pose in Playboy to become a more well-rounded people- we lost what it was that which we wore to our ankles. Our ankle socks have left the nest of two-word phrases and shed it's first word skin. Leave them alone, they have work to do.

Our adult wardrobe is pile-driving my iron 'chic'