Some years ago, goaded by delusions of sartorial elegance, I tiptoed into an intimidating, oak-paneled, uptown boutique selling luxurious cashmere socks in exact foot sizes. There were no cotton-blend, vaguely fitted packs of three in neutral colors for sale in this store.
In fact, it was more of a sock showroom than a store. An array of shimmering, lustrous socks were draped elegantly upon sculptured display plinths, as if seductively discarded by lithe figures from a Maxfield Parrish painting before skipping off into the golden forest behind the counter. There were no price tags on the merchandise, obviously, and I was the only customer.
"Are these sweat-wicking by any chance?" I asked the lugubrious sales clerk. My query sounded a trifle foolish, even to my callow, overawed ears. But what else was I going to say in the circumstances? "Can I try these mauve and fuchsia argyles on, in a size eight-and-a-half?" seemed equally as strange and oafish.
I carefully fingered several pairs of the socks like they might somehow shatter if I manhandled them too roughly. Yes, these are very nice socks and make no mistake, I thought. But they are surely more expensive than even my finest pair of dress shoes. Wearing such magnificent socks inside my scuffed-up leather Oxfords would be like pulling a grubby plastic hairnet over an Olympian laurel wreath.
Then there was the question of my neglected twenty-four year-old male feet. Did my untrimmed toenailed feet deserve to be swaddled in socks as beautiful as those socks? Clearly the answer was in the negative. Somewhere in the bowels of the bank down the street, my checking account rolled its eyes and breathed a deep sigh of relief.
I thanked the sales clerk with all the dignity of the most obsequious of forelock-tugging sycophants and left without buying anything.
The fancy sock store is long gone, of course, and the space is currently occupied by a purveyor of gourmet burritos. I don't buy anything there, either.
