Crazy Socks

I’m 1/64 Native American. Lily-white as I appear to be, my great-great-great-great-great-great (I believe it’s just the six greats, give or take a great) grandmother was full-blooded Snohomish Indian, back when they still called her “Indian” anyway. Again, to look at me – and be blinded by the white, almost holy glare – you might find yourself skeptical. Honestly, I doubt I’d have believed it if the lineage hadn’t been so well documented.

I’m not a percentage “Indian” enough to be accepted into a tribe, or apply for an ethnicity-based scholarship, or even enough to really appreciate dream catchers (I make sour faces at most beige, feathered and fringed art) but I do think it qualifies me to have a Native American name. And if that’s true, I’d like to be known as “Crazy Socks”.

My husband buys me crazy socks. He always has. And we’ve been together long enough that some of the amusing socks he’d gifted me with in the beginning of our relationship are now on their last…feet. Each eccentric pair represents a novelty I would never have purchased for myself. But I love them, all of them. It reminds me of his influence on me.

Things I considered too silly, too geeky or wholly uncool before him are, these days, not. He encourages my inner-child to lighten up, and in doing so I have more fun in life. I smile and laugh so much more. I make corny jokes and do dorky dances. And I now feel sorry for those who don’t. Those who are too hard, or too reserved, or too distinguished, or too aloofly cool to – at least from time to time – not give such an uptight shit about being any or all of those things.

Not that I’m entirely uninhibited. My husband will always be a bigger dork than me. And I will continue to occasionally shake my head when he grabs his right ankle, puts his left hand behind his head, and breaks it down in the middle of a crowded nightclub à la Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. While he’s doing the Carlton Dance I will still turn to a friend and dryly state, “I have sex with him.”

But I love it. I do. I love his free spirit, sense of humor, inner-clown and the trickle-down goofonomics it has on me. I love my life with him and all the crazy, crazy socks it brings.

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3 thoughts on “Crazy Socks

  1. Nik Post author

    Ha! Well, it was more subdued in its debut. Now it’s expected when we go out. If our life were a television show it would be my catch phrase, “I have sex with him.” Funny, since I stole the line from a friend whose husband is equally….speshul. 🙂

    Reply
  2. Miss Rose Rose

    I suppose it would be a little indiscreet of me to point out that when I was the friend involved, it wasn’t so much “dryly stated” as it was “screamed across the club”? (Not that there’d be much difference, given the volume of the music at that point. 😉

    Reply

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