Hmm. I'm not sure what to say about this situation.
I wish I could say I didn't realize my socks were mismatched. But I did.
I just. Didn't. Care.
Dressing in the dim light of our closet at 5:45 this morning, I did manage to find a shirt, a sweater, a necklace and earrings to match. I located jeans without holes and fished out a pair of boots that looked decent without polishing.
Once upon a time I would have rummaged further for a mate for either sock. It would have mattered, and I probably would have at least padded down the hall past the kitchen to the laundry room. I'd have peeked in the dryer to see if the partner to either of these socks was hiding in there.
Since those days, I've been eight months pregnant while working eighteen hour days. I've nursed and pumped and rocked a baby half the night, then commuted and answered emails and phone calls all day. I've watched sick horses and worried the darkness to light.
So this morning I picked two unmatched, clean, striped socks from the top of my dresser where they were waiting, next to the velvet bag holding Georgie's collar and a lock of her hair.
I have realized that if I wear boots, my socks have zero percent chance of being seen. Sometimes, that's the simplification I need to keep life's balance tipped in my favor.