The day after I fell from grace, I went to the infirmary at my school. I put a sock and shoe on my right foot, but left my left foot bare. I can’t reach it, and I don’t want anyone else trying to force a sock onto it. After my appointment, as I was leaving the office, a woman who worked there stopped me, and told me it looked like my foot would get cold when I went outside. She gave me a wool sock to keep it warm. It is a great sock. Not only is it as soft as a kitten, but it is also loose enough to fit comfortably over my foot without requiring any force. Unfortunately, nobody else likes it as much as I do. My mom complained that it’s not a real sock because it’s open on both ends. One of my roommates asked me “What’s that piece of cloth doing on your foot?” My mom loved that description of it. I retorted “It’s not a piece of cloth. It’s a sock. They gave it to me at the infirmary.” “Of course,” he replied, “You went in there with a broken kneecap, and they gave you a piece of cloth. Typical. They probably also asked you if you were pregnant.” I don’t care what anybody else thinks. I love my new sock.
