I haven’t blogged in a while. Mostly because of that book I just published (you know how kids are … most of the work comes after they are born) but also because I am moving. Again. 8^th time in 16 years. It’s not that I’m a glutton for punishment. It’s more like I am a seeker, continually searching for my true home. With this next move I do believe I’ll be getting closer.

But that is future-Vickie’s problem. Current Vickie is up to her eyeballs in packing, culling, organizing and preparing. Which brings me to my sock drawer …

I used to have a dedicated sock drawer. Every laundry day I would pair up those cute little toe-warmers and neatly place them in their home, lined up like good little soldiers ready for their next march. For the record, I also had a dedicated panty drawer and a dedicated bra drawer.

Not anymore. It would appear that in the last several years (and moves) I have given up all semblance of organization. Orderliness is out the window. Systematization has become irrelevant. I now have an underwear drawer. Or two. And where everything lands is a total crap-shoot.

But wait … there’s more! When I dress for my daily walk I just grab whichever two socks show up first. Sometimes it’s a purple one and a green one, sometimes it’s a white one and a striped one and sometimes I hit the jackpot and they actually match! I don’t care. I am not walking to put on a fashion show (if you’ve ever seen me you know this to be true) and I really don’t care if my tootsies correspond. A sock is a sock is a sock. It only has one job to do and harmonization is not on the resume.

I have recently taken my delinquent sock system a step further. I no longer match up my beloved’s stockings either. They’re either navy or black and they all go into the same drawer. He can sort them (or not) when he gets dressed. Not my problem anymore.

I think with all this moving (not to mention learning and growing) I have come to realize quite succinctly what IS a waste of my time and what is not. Matching anybody’s socks is way down on my list of priorities. Folding panties and cupping bra sides together (I know people who do this!) … never! Organizing separate drawers and then keeping them neat? Not interested. You should see me fold a fitted sheet! I mean, I don’t. I flip it around a few times until it looks like it might fit into my linen closet and then I stuff it into my linen closet.

So why? Why have I chosen to abandon propriety in the name of renegade socks and messy linens?

I think it has to do with freedom. Freedom from conformity. Freedom from what we “nice girls” were taught was important. Freedom to spend our hours in pursuits that matter to us.

And THAT is the kicker. Pursuits that matter to us. You see, I do like clean clothes and clean sheets. I also like writing books and cooking dinners and walking miles and making music. I like all of these things more than I like an orderly sock drawer. Sorry socks … you lose.

That is not to say that you shouldn’t iron your sheets and line up your perfectly-paired socks IF THAT IS YOUR JAM. Always jam your jam, people, whatever it is. My pal M recently did me the hugest favour of doing a load of my laundry when I couldn’t. I was fully prepared to pull my stuff out of her dryer, throw it back into the basket and deal with it when I got home, wrinkles be damned. But nooooooo. By the time I got even close to those clothes M had folded then so beautifully and so precisely you would have thought she ran a laundromat for royalty. Full-time. Like she had a PhD in Wrinkle-Removing.

I love M with all my heart and was delighted by her jamming her jam. Or, in this case, my jam (read: dirty clothes). But I am not ever going back. I mean, I’ll go back to M’s anytime (even if she doesn’t fold my clothes). I’m just not going back to caring about laundry. In my new home all of my dainties will reside in whichever drawer they land. I will continue to wear mismatched socks (and probably mismatched everything else) when I walk. My sheets will find their way to my bed, wrinkles be damned. I will write another book, more blogs, drink wine, cook dinners and make music.

And I will continue to walk as long as my two feet carry me. Next time you see me out pounding the trail, check my socks.

I bet you a bottle of wine they won’t match. And I hope we both laugh.