The Cupertino Courier

The case of the invisible sock

By Ingrid McCleary

Poor sock.

There it lay, ignored by everyone. Oh, I saw it every time I walked through the hallway, but I purposely didn't pick it up. I wanted to see how long it would be before someone else picked it up.

As the emergency broadcast on the radio says, "This is a test. This is only a test."

The test came about because, well, because I was nagging again.

"Please, you're old enough now to pick up after yourselves," I said to my kids.

"We do!" they responded.

"No, you don't," I threw back.

I don't like to nag. It's unattractive. It's not a part of me that needs exercising. In fact, it's a part of me that I can easily live without. In frustration, I appealed to my husband. "Could you please help me by picking things up off the floor?"

"I do," he said.

"No, you don't," I replied. Funny how people think they do things when they really don't.

I don't like to test people. It's underhanded, and it smacks of playing head games, another unattractive exercise. But, I rationalized, it's only a harmless test to make my point.

Day one: Poor, invisible sock. It's sprawled in the hallway outside the bathroom door. The family goes up and down that hallway every time we head toward the kitchen, bathroom or bedrooms. I calculated it would be stepped over at least 80 times a day.

Day two: By mid-morning, the sock is celebrating its centennial ignorathon. Picking up after themselves? I don't think so!

Day three: By now, I've got a distinct smirk on my face. See? I don't nag without justification.

Day four: Now I'm wondering what's missing in my life that I should find such satisfaction in an ignored sock.

Day five: Uh oh, laundry day. My husband does the laundry on Saturdays, and with his mind focused on clothes, he finally spotted it.

I am fortunate in that my husband does the laundry. He tosses the clothes from the washer to the dryer to the laundry basket and folds the batches in the living room. He enjoys it because he can fold them while watching television. Of course, it also means my black sweatshirts come out charcoal gray, but hey, quid pro quo!

Not doing the laundry is worth the occasional ruined item. Though when my black velvet evening half-jacket came out ripped and with its sleeves bleached mysteriously orange, I was truly chagrined. My daughter had borrowed it for her winter formal, and it ended up in her laundry pile. If I'd known, I would have pulled it out and hand-washed it with tender care. But as the experts say, if you delegate the chores, you have to relinquish responsibility for those chores. This is also why my kitchen floor is not as clean as I'd like it.

So back to the sock. When I reported to my family that they'd walked over that sock about 400 times before Bill picked it up, they said, "No way!"

"Yes, way," I replied, not able to keep from gloating.

Well, as I'd predicted, they didn't like being tested. They were, in fact, insulted that I'd stooped to subterfuge. And they let me have it.

"That's not fair!"

"What's not fair is leaving it to someone else to clean up."

"We don't!"

"Yes, you do, and this proves it."

For the rest of that day and well into the next week, Bill would pause before picking up a belt, a shoe, a crayon, and with one eyebrow arched, say, "Was this a test, too?"

I'd smile and say no.

Honest, I wasn't testing any more, but it didn't hurt to let him think I just might be.

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