This morning I mended a hole in a sock, making up with sheer quantity of stitches what my sewing lacked in skill. I deliberately put royal blue thread in a light gray sock, and the combination pleased me but caused Ross to refer to what I had made, when I showed it to him later, as “Frankensock.” Nevertheless, I was proud that I had not let a (rather large) hole in a sock prevent it from carrying out the rest of its useful existence.

My pride was lessened by the fact that it was a brand new sock, an expensive one at that, and the hole in it had been put there by my own self not five minutes after I opened the package. I do not blame me, however; I blame the tiny plastic T-shaped tags they put in new things, in order to fasten to them tiny paper tags that no one needs or wants, and that some people might feel the desire to tug out immediately, against all resistance.

Next time I’ll use a pair of scissors. I can’t afford to buy any more socks.