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My eyebrows flare and I’m filled with contempt for my fellow man. When friends tell me they wear socks to bed, I turn into Andy Rooney. You might wake up in the middle of the night and slip on a freshly waxed floor, or build up so much static electricity you shock yourself when you go to reach for your phone in the morning. Odd "what if’s" aside, sock-sleeping, to me, is just plain dangerous. And I want those creepy covered secrets out of my bed. Maybe they have toenails like stalactites or a regrettable infinity sign tattoo or feet that look like hands. I automatically assume anyone who wears socks has something to hide. ∽on’t they know that this is one of the only things that everyone agrees on? That we, as a culture, have decided that socks and sheets shall never meet? She left, and I, alone in my stubbornness, became the proud owner of a Seinfeld B-plot (“She’s a Sock Sleeper, Jerry!”).
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I once instigated a fight with a bedmate over her sock wearing. What’s not to hate? Like all bedtime champions of monumental pettiness, I’ve suffered for my beliefs. The heat, the toenail scratch against cotton, the inevitable morning footbath of sweat. It’s as unfathomable to me as going up a flight of stairs on all fours or setting your toilet paper under the roll. What probably started as an ordinary aversion to hot feet eventually morphed into an all-out contempt for socks in the sheets. I’m not sure where my commitment to barefoot sleeping comes from. Though I had somehow avoided all traditional drunken pratfalls, something far worse happened: for the first time in my life, I had passed out with socks on. I had evidently made it back to my bed, suffered no obvious injuries and my phone and wallet were still safely in my pockets. The morning after the first time I got drunk (parking lot, Kahlua), I knew something was very off.