Socks

     Everyone has their own interests and hobbies. Some have stamp collections, others collectors cards, actions figures, anything that you can typically find in variety. Tomorrow at school, we are having show and tell, and everyone will bring their own collections. At first I was excited, I wanted to show off my year’s worth of collecting. But after talking to a few of my friends, I realized how different my hobby was, and if I brought my collection to school I’d be teased and made fun of.

    I still remember that day, so very clear. My parents moved from Africa when I was 6, so we weren’t used to the cold weather here. We went shopping, and I picked out my first, and still my favorite pair. I was intrigued by the shape, the colors, the patterns, and yet the plainness. Most people here don’t appreciate them, they walk all over them. But I did.

     As soon as we got home, I rushed to open the pack, and cover my feet with the soothing blanket of cotton. I didn’t know where to begin, where was I to hold them? What was I to balance myself on whilst sliding them on. Instructions were nowhere to be found, as if they were mocking my stupidity. My mother offered to help, but I rejected. The bond we shared the moment I laid eyes on them did not allow anyone to interfere. They were mine, and I was theirs.

     They were ever so soft, my feet felt vibrantly comfortable, I wanted to dance around and jump for joy. The feeling could not be described through words, my feet were experiencing a rage of orgasm. I didn’t have enough, and what I did have would soon wear out or rip. I wanted more, many more. Different kinds, from different places, made from different materials. It was an absurd obsession, who in their right mind would develop such feelings for them.

     Ever since, every opportunity I got, I went and bought more. I filled my drawer, and then twelve more. My parents did try to stop me, they even took me to a psychiatrist, who explained I would get over this phase. A phase? Such an insult, I would stop breathing before I stopped collecting. But then again, people didn’t understand, no one would. Not my parents, not the doctors, not my friends.

     Besides, I would need a truck to bring my collection to school, they didn’t expect us to go through such lengths. That night I could not sleep, if I had nothing to show and nothing to tell, would it be considered worse than what I actually did have? Perhaps, and by this logic I was doomed either way, so I decided to pick my favorites into a bag and off I went with a soldier’s heart.

     There I was, sitting and thinking. Waiting for the moment to arrive when we would all pull out our bags and share our treasured collections. I was ready to show them though, and make them appreciate it. Soon enough the teacher told us to gather in a circle, and present to the rest of the class what we had to offer. An excited butterfly feeling rushed down my spine into my stomach. They began presenting.

     My fear turned to disgust. What I saw I could not believe, and what I believed was torn to shreds. How dare these people piss in my face, and expect me to drink it. A collection of rubber bands? Worse, paper clips. They had no right to claim these as hobbies. They were so distant from what I expected, I felt a nervous gag. There was no heart or soul, and worst of all no bond between the collector and the items. Was I a fool to expect something more from them?

They went on, and soon my turn arrived. I had completely forgotten about myself. I was so caught up in the others, humiliating them in my head. They stared at me, and I stared back. I declined. I told them I had nothing. The teacher smiled and moved onto the next person. It was that easy, to show them nothing, and tell them nothing, but of course at this point it was to be expected with all of the previous collections, each lamer than the next.

I looked at my bag and for a second thought to myself why I didn’t show them. Then I remembered, because they didn’t deserve to see it. They were too simple-minded. Everyone was, no one would understand. After reaching home, I looked again at my feet. I smiled, and went to bed, with my socks.