I Didn't Choose the Sock Life

The Sock Life Chose Me

I’ve had a bad sock reputation for decades.

Many years ago I worked as a media buyer in a high-rise on Sunset Blvd. Specifically, the Playboy building. My company rented out one of the floors, but the rest were used for photo shoots and other nudie business. I was on an elevator with Pamela Anderson and her Canadian parents more than a few times. She always seemed sweet. Although I kind of question that type of family activity.

My colleagues and I co-existed with Hefner Enterprises just fine, even though it was always a little awkward when the elevator doors opened onto one of their floors and you’d see a gigantic centerfold plastered on the wall. If I was standing next to my boss, I’d just close my eyes and keep my mouth shut so I didn’t blurt out something like, “Well, breast wishes on your meeting today, Jim! Hope they’re ready to take the company pubic!”

The most memorable week was the time Playboy had an open casting call for amateur models. Our building was besieged by hopeful women in short shorts and crop tops, many of them running across the four lanes of Sunset Blvd. in heels, so all day long we’d hear cars screeching and honking. We also fell way behind on our deadlines because my male co-workers rode the elevators for eight hours a day. “If I meet the girl of my dreams, and we get married and then have a baby,” one of them told me, “I’m naming it Otis.”

All of that to say, one day I was in a meeting with some of the higher ups, most likely dressed in a smashing polyester fit from 1990’s The Limited. I remember that I said something fairly smart, and then regally crossed my legs. But instead of being impressed, the guy next to me looked down at my ankles and yelped, “Oh my god do you have on two different novelty socks? Your left foot is a Las Vegas sock and your right foot is a University of Oregon Ducks sock!”

Friends, I did indeed.

And so began my bad sock rep. Co-workers would regularly ask me to lift up my pant legs to see what I was wearing. It’s not lost on me that I was a young woman in the prime of my life, standing in the Playboy building, and the only body part people wanted me to expose was my ankles. When I later left that job and they threw me a going away party, the invitation said, “BYOB AND WEAR MATCHING SOCKS!”

Besides the matching bullshit, I also have the family nickname of Sock Stealer because I’ve been accused of leaving my parents’ house with more socks than I had when I arrived. I’d like to state that this is a false accusation, but the 15 pairs of black Goldtoe men’s dress socks in my drawer prevent me from doing so.

All of that to say that when Chronicle Books approached me about writing a funny book about socks, because they saw this piece I wrote about pants, I was all in. And now SOCKS: A Footloose Miscellany for Sock Lovers and Wearers is out in the world!

It’s beautifully illustrated and it’s funny, and I dare say it’s the perfect gift to give along with a pair of (matching) socks. Find it wherever books are sold.

The book has over 30 takes on “you can tell a lot about a person by the socks they wear,” and they’re all pretty spot on. But of course, this one’s my favorite.

It’s all in the matching criteria.

Thanks for reading!

—Wendi