One of the Great Mysteries of Our Time

There is a mystery that continues to confound me well into my '40s: Orphan Sock Syndrome.

I have a pile of socks on my dresser that for months (years?) has not had a mate. Where the heck do they go? Is there a moment in time when a (non-laundry-doing) member of the family finally discards a hole-y sock, but does not notify me or its mate, sending the left or right footed sock into wearer limbo? Or, worse yet, is there a pair of socks rolled together in one of our drawers whose mate(s) have been left to search for it's match atop my dresser for all eternity? That seems a little clandestine on the part of the happily-matched-other-orphan socks.

Every week the orphan socks come together with the mated socks in the wild, wonderful "basket of clean whites," and every week they end up in their pile back on my dresser. Oh, every once in a while there will be a long awaited match, but more often than not the old standbys are welcoming new members to their lonely club.

This bothers me so much I'm thinking I should do a PSA.

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