Socks

I threw away all the socks I don’t wear the other day and they were all zebra stripes and hot pink and lively. I’m not a crazy socks kind of person. When I buy patterned colorful socks, I wear them occasionally and even then only begrudgingly.

I wear the same five or six pieces of jewelry over and over again. I gravitate toward black, navy, and neutral earth tones. I own about 20 v-neck t shirts and if you gave me a choice, I’d pick denim and a t-shirt over couture any day. Variety is not the spice of my life. I like routine. Too many choices fatigues me.

The patterned socks? They are everything I always feel like I need to be. Fun, colorful, full of excitement. Anyone who knows me knows that I am not quintessentially fun, colorful, or full of excitement. I *can* be all of those things, but they aren’t my M.O. I don’t enter a room and exude color. I’m quiet; like a sponge. I like to listen and observe, and if I’m not paying attention I will unwittingly take on other people’s energy. I’m often happiest alone with a book in the park, soaking up the sun. I don’t live to be the center of attention. So? I’ll stick to what I truly like and stop buying the things that make me feel like I’m trying to be someone else. And that starts with the crazy socks. 

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