What Color Are Your Socks?
What a simplistic, mindless question. Ten words into this (including the title) and I’ve quite possibly already triggered several more in your mind: Who cares? My socks … why? You’re kidding, right?
It just so happens that I am acquainted with a young woman who cares very much about the color of her socks. Correction: make that multi-colored socks. They are Misti’s trademark, the outward extension of the essence of her personality. They mirror her joie de vive — the joy of life.
Me? I’d rather go barefoot. Perhaps there’s a little throwback yokel blood in my veins; the root of my mother’s struggles to keep me in footwear of any kind. I overheard her complaining to her friends that when I came home from school I kicked off my shoes within the first two steps through the front door. Trust me, it was no exaggeration.When I must adopt conventional fashion, you’ll generally spy ordinary, white socks on my feet. They are the unimaginative, economical, six-pairs-to-a-package cotton gym attire that coordinates perfectly with the roomy athletic shoes my freedom loving toes prefer. I can reach into my sock drawer with my eyes closed and pick out a matching pair every time! If the clothes dryer should decide to send one into that mysterious, invisible dimension no scientist has yet to explain, there’s no need to throw the survivor away; especially since I purchase two packages at a time. Don’t think for a minute that the people in ‘sock marketing’ arbitrarily decided on half a dozen socks per package in a seven-days-a-week society … it’s a conspiracy.
As long as my socks are clean and free of holes, I’m good to go. Leaving home with matching socks are important, too, but I effectively eliminated that problem.
This is not the case for Misti. Socks are the equivalent of a signature piece of fine jewelry to her. I didn’t understand this in the beginning, failing to appreciate her point of view. The problem is that she is employed at a fast food establishment and like all such franchises, the little worker bees wear matching uniforms. These fashion statements are no doubt decided upon by corporate bigwigs (while wearing uniquely patterned neckties to coordinate with their colored shirts, I imagine).
Standing on the customer side of the counter the waist-up view of the crew presents the ‘proper’ look dictated as the result of millions of dollars of research. The moment Misti steps into the dining area to greet regular customers during her ten-minute break, it’s apparent she walks to the beat of a different drummer. Misti owns a mind-boggling wardrobe of the wildest socks I’ve ever seen. Neon zebra stripes, bright patterns and designs scream her individuality against the rest of her black attire. Wearing those socks puts a spring in Misti’s step and a broad smile on her face. I’m not the only customer who breaks into a wide grin, anticipating the socks du jour.
Once upon a time, like many fairy tales, happiness was threatened by an antagonist at the establishment where Misti worked. She was, quite suddenly, ordered to comply with the company’s dress code … all the way down to her toes. It came down as an ultimatum; black socks or her job.
Now I don’t argue the right of a company to enforce a dress code. How else are we, the consumers, to rest assured that the people who are preparing those convenient meals aren’t unskilled imposters? But isn’t it enough that they must wear ill-fitting, unisex shirts with dorky logos on the pocket? That’s enough I.D. to convince me the person taking my order is an underpaid drone.
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