The sock drawer

While waiting for the result of my tongue biopsy, I cleaned out my sock drawer.

I realized that if anything happened to me, someone would have to empty out my sock drawer, and they would decide I was crazy along the lines of a cat lady, or perhaps that I was a lower-level version of Imelda Marcos and her shoes. (My collection of shoes and sneakers is another matter.)

Plus, spring was in the air, and I was carried along by the urge to start de-cluttering somewhere.

I dumped the over-stuffed sock drawer on the floor, studied the colorful collection, and walked away.

The biopsy results are still inconclusive, and the other day I dumped out the contents of the other sock drawers. These are in a small chest meant to hold various things and not really intended to be crammed with socks. I had kind of forgotten that they were all full.

I had a system: Socks in pairs in the main dresser, and singles in the small chest. I planned to every now and then dump out the singles and find pairs. I forgot to do that and kept buying socks and then pondering the old question, "Where do all socks go?"

More grounds for any clean-up crew to label me the crazy sock lady.

At this point I had to take action. I actually found many matches, realizing that a partial answer to the disappearing socks riddle was that they had disappeared into my own bedroom.

I discarded worn-out socks and singles and made a giveaway bag for socks in fine condition but ones that I would never wear. A handful of singles was so nice that I couldn't toss them. I doubt that they will ever find their mates, but I returned them to the singles drawer. Hope springs eternal.

Finding this a good distraction from worrying about the biopsy results (and also an activity that gave rewarding results), I eyed my closet floor, where I had piled my race and tennis T-shirts. Not too long ago, I had removed them from my overstuffed drawers and stacked them with some giveaway shirts on the floor, making it difficult for me to get at the clothes in the closet.

I wear some of the shirts, but most are just plain too big. I don't know why I got so many larges; either I was bigger then or I just liked them baggier. Many are from years of running the Saint Patrick's Road Race and are varying shades of green; I associate them with different years and the memories that go with them. The one that I wore in 2003, when my fatigue led to the discovery that I had leukemia, is actually blue with a green stripe and a white one. I couldn't throw that one away, but I have mixed feelings about wearing it.

I recently asked a runner friend what he does with his T-shirts, and he said he folds them neatly and puts them away in a spare room. He told me he has seen ads for people who will take these kinds of shirts and cut them up and place them into a quilt.

I can't cut let anyone cut up my shirts!

I weeded through the pile and added the regular giveaway shirts to the bag. The rest are in a smaller pile still on the closet floor. A blanket chest at the bottom of my bed is overstuffed with out-of-season clothes belonging to Katie and me. I am going to sort through those clothes, and then I think I will put the race and tennis shirts in there.

The chest is a story in itself. It was an unfinished piece that Jim painted blue and that my mother decorated with beautiful painted flowers: a brightly-colored bouquet in the center of each panel, with smaller flowers in each corner and a vine traveling around the edges, in her distinct free-flowing style. I can still see her working on it on two sawhorses in the living room.

Unfortunately, the top of the chest is a magnet for clothes I mean to put away, papers I mean to file and books I mean to read. I am making myself sound like a major slob, but it really isn't that bad. I periodically clean the chest off, and I am so happy with the results (as I'm sure my mother would be...or is.)

To get to the clothes, I need to clean the top.

This multiple-step project should keep me busy until I get the final biopsy report early next week.