A hole in the sock is something that really changes the course of my day. Like a canker sore, a cut on the tip of the finger, it makes itself uncomfortably present, an ongoing irritation.
When I went away to college, I became aware of my clothing in a different way. It was a finite supply — no more were there boxes of winter clothes tucked away in the attic, flannels to borrow from any given family member. I had what I had, and it would have to get me through to Thanksgiving break.
I wasn’t much of a sewist then, but I knew the broad strokes (in one side, out the other), and I had the tiny kit my father had passed down from his bachelor days — ten or so needles and a few lengths of unshowy dark thread in a plastic box the size of my palm.
I had a few pairs of good winter socks, REI-brand, olive-green wool. They felt indestructible: I reached for them when I felt too fragile to bear the indignity of a thin ankle sock, when I needed the reliability of a durable thing on my body, which then was mostly clothed in thrifted, complicated items that zipped and buttoned in unexpected places.
Eventually, my reliable socks began to show signs of wear. I busted out the sewing kit. I tried to fix many of my clothes, then, inexpertly closing holes, re-sewing loose buttons. I folded over the loosening elastic bands of old bras and sewed it tighter. When I changed at night, angry red marks lay across my ribs, reactions to my repairs.
Eventually, I let some of this go. I spent money on clothing that fit; hurt less. But socks — socks! I have a thing about socks.
Though I’m no stranger to the decluttering process, putting clothes in a pile and sending them to Goodwill, socks are different. Nobody wants a holey old sock, worn in the shape of a stranger’s foot. When I’m done with them, they go in the trash. I have ten-year old socks, wool-blend and worn paper-thin around the heel and toe. They showcase my early efforts at darning with those dark bachelor threads.
Unlike most other items of clothing, which I am fussy about, socks are something I am happy to receive as a gift. In fact, the contents of my sock drawer are mostly gifts: hand-knits from my grandmother that date back to my tweendom; Smartwool and Darn Tough wool socks, gifted a pair at a time from various Christmases and birthdays; hand-me-down socks too big for my mother and too small for my father.
I got to be a pretty good sewist during the pandemic, willing all those months of unemployment to add up into a tangible skill. But darning still frustrates. I start off confident, with clean lines, then immediately I miss a stitch, or the embroidery thread tangles, or I see a gap and panic. I never go big enough, in my border. You’re supposed to sew well around the edges of the hole, but I never do, and so the hole always grows, past the clumsy fencing of my stitches, creeping up the heel or across the toe. I add on, rip out old efforts. I stretch my sock across a tennis ball (I don’t have a darning egg) to see what’s what, scoff at my half-hazard previous attempts.
There’s this machine I covet, that I see on Instagram reels and nowhere else. A tiny darning loom, meant to establish order and good, clean lines in mending. You can add a pop of color with your thread! It will look cooler than the original! I could easily make or buy a used darning egg, but I want this thing. That costs more than a good pair of socks and cancels out my sustainability impact upon purchase. But I want it.
It’s always been easier for me to think of sustainability on an individual level. The discomfiting zoom out to the global scale, the massive waste entirely divorced from recycling or reusable shopping bags, is hard to look at full-on. It took me working at a bakery, throwing away dozens of fresh loaves of bread in the dumpster most afternoons, to think “Okay, maybe I don’t have a moral obligation to scrape the mold off leftovers and eat it anyway.” The scale is entirely, comically, different. I still try my best, but wasting food or using single-use plastic happens upon me every once in a while, and I don’t feel guilty.
These are the contradictory impulses: 1) buy nothing, reuse and repair everything. Wear the hair shirt of sustainability proudly; make the self-sacrifice into a character-building celebration of the finiteness we all push against. Or, 2) denying small comforts does little to nothing. Others live so lavishly, so carelessly, and does moral high ground really hinge on a pair of socks? Attention spans are limited, and do I want to spend mine on socks? When I think about socks, I rub up against my limits, my basest frustrations.
I could throw away my old socks, buy new ones. But I like my old socks. I like thinking about all the places they’ve been with me, from Massachusetts to Ohio to Illinois to Vermont. I’ll throw some away eventually, I know, buy more.
I don’t know. There’s so much harm being done in the world right now, and when I don’t want to think about that I think about socks. I think about what’s next on my project pile. I think about my hands, what they can hold and mend at any given moment. The answer, as always, is: not much! But, I don’t know, something! When I look back at the world, I try to hold that same answer.
To those also interested in stitching — highly recommend Tatreez & Tea and Public Library Quilts.