” I can’t wait to go home and wash all those socks.”–Julianne Moore
Let’s face it: daily life in the new millennium is full of any number of experiences that, well, there is just no word or words to describe. Enter Mr. World’s Most Cluttered Mind to come to the rescue. Herein lies the ultimate descriptionary for everything you wanted to curse out but had no easy descriptive way to do so. We’ll start, though, with a low tech dilemma, rooted in the 20th century.
Dysoxia–n. The anxiety caused by inability to match socks when they come out of the wash.
We’ve all experienced it. You get to the end of folding a basket of clean clothes, and there they are: two socks that don’t match. Even worse, maybe there is an odd number of socks left with no matches. Three. Five. (1083)+1.** There are any number of theories to explain this phenomenon. The socks are alien beings, and the missing one has reported back to its home planet. Socks are the larval form of wire hangers. A more scientific approach is my theory of frequent wash color drift: as socks get washed over and over, the color of each sock fades at different rates over time. This causes subtle mismatches which, when compounded by folding several pairs, may leave you with two socks at the end that are far apart in hue. How does this explain being left with an odd sock at the end? My guess is somewhere one sock disintegrated and its remains will be found in the lint drawer.
Please feel free to share your theories, and to suggest subjects for future editions of Mark’s Neologisms. Oh, and my advice to Ms. Moore? You’re a rich movie star. Don’t ever wash socks, you can afford to wear them once and throw them away.
** In case you were wondering how many socks (1083)+1 is–it is probably enough to fill the entire visible universe. And none of them would match.