When money is no object

Not to brag, but I have attained a station in life that my great-grandfather could only dream about. Thanks to the education afforded me and the continuous employment I have had for my entire career, not to mention the occasional dumb luck, I am now in such a financial position that I can walk into pretty much any mens' department at any store in a 30 mile radius and pay cash for any pair of socks I want.

I don't have to look at the price tags. Any sock-buying decision can be made on the merits of the actual socks. The feel of the material, the suitability of the color and pattern, the perceived durability - these are the things, the ONLY things, that need guide my decision. There is no reason to consider a compromise of the quality to meet some arbitrary budget established to reign in extravagance. There is no concern that a trade of some essential item will have to be made to balance the cost of the hosiery.

Money is no object when it comes to my socks!

So, answer me this: why am I wearing a sock on my left foot for the umpteenth time that has a hole at the toe? This particular hole is large enough that my big toe has pushed through up to the point where the hole is now functioning as a tourniquet. If some disaster should strike and cause severe trauma to that toe, I would have absolutely no fear of bleeding out before qualified medical people could stabilize my wound. My left sock would save my life!

In years now passed, an egg shaped wooden form would be slipped into such a sock to aid in the repair - darning, it was called - and the sock would be knit back together and restored to a serviceable condition. (This explains the former high mortality rates for people with severe toe trauma.) Women would have baskets full of such socks beside their rockers and would sew with whatever thread was available - after all, no one would ever see the toes of your socks!

But there are precious few repairs made in the modern times. Especially for guys in my station in life. We are the guys driving the sock fashion industry and fueling the economies of sweat shops all over the world. We not only don't darn our socks, we actually encourage others to throw away their baskets, put down their needles and thread and buy new socks.

Yet, for all of that, my left big toe is cold and numb from being compressed by the edges of the hole in my sock.

The problem is that I hate shopping. I thoroughly despise the punishment that is going into the marketplace. I loath the prospect of spending my time answering clerks who see me as a mark and wish to up-sell the old guy looking at socks.

"I see that you are looking at socks."

"Good for you."

"These are Bolivian Alpaca furball hose hand woven by actual children high on Andy's mountain and sold only in carefully matched pairs. A tasteful and discerning man who appreciates the finer things in life will desire a matching three piece suit with a cigar in every pocket. These suits are hand crafted by actual hands. The pant legs are guaranteed to reach all the way to the gentleman's socks."

"No suit, just the socks."

"You want fries with that?"

And then there is the conundrum of 16 checkout counters and only one checkout clerk who is waiting for a manager to handle an over ring, and has been waiting for most of a week.

When I pull on my socks in the morning and discover that in the great sock lottery I have drawn a sock with a hole in the toe, I think about shopping.

Maybe when I have even greater means I'll hire somebody to buy my socks for me.