One sock goes in. Two tumble out—never a matching pair. The washing machine’s appetite for socks is unmatched, a silent enigma. Somewhere, a universe of stray socks exists, living unworn. I wish they’d send a postcard. Once, in a moment of impulsive creativity, I paired polka dots with pinstripes and wore them to work, convinced I was starting a trend. Imagine my embarrassment when my quirky boss chuckled and asked if I dressed in the dark. Now, every trip past the laundry is a reminder: fashion risks untried become regrets.