The older I get, the less tolerance I have for improper sockage. Today I implemented the following policies:

• The responsibilities of the socks are three-fold: to keep my feet warm, to absorb sweat, and to make me happy. The last requirement has historically been ignored. No longer shall this be so!
• Therefore, a strict quota is imposed on professional, boring socks. Life is too short for a drawer full of black trouser socks.
• Life is also too brief for an unreasonable shortage of cushy white cotton athletic socks, or the same of an improper style. Purge.
• Black tights that no longer fit are banished. The last time such things were routinely called for were during late-teens moody goth period.
• Likewise, all pantyhose are banished. 12 screws in an ankle constitute a free pass from high heels, and no heels means one no longer need concern oneself with hose.
• Socks associated with bad memories are banished.
• Socks that were a gift from First Love in 1993 are banished. Fourteen-year-old socks are ridiculous.
• Socks that might maybe possibly have a mate somewhere in another dimension are banished.
• Socks that are much-loved but faded or full of holes in the toes are also banished. Learn to darn? Pitch ’em.
• Happy socks will heretofore comprise the bulk of the sock inventory. Stripes, polka-dots, snowflakes, and skulls are mandated. When one lives in a place where long pants and boots are de rigeur for half the year, nobody actually sees them anyway. Might as well make yourself happy.

Update: The Happy Sock Flickr Set is sprouted and growing.