When I saw you perusing the cold brew coffee in Whole Foods, it wasn’t your deftly tied scarf that caught my eye, nor the effortless je n’ais se quoi of your half-tucked shirt. No. It was the way you had ever so slightly cuffed your jeans to leave an inch of sock visible between hem and shoe that captivated me.
Though clearly a visual secret handshake for your peers, one that would instantly inform the discerning millenial eye that you, too, are a nonconformist, the detail proved strangely alluring. Of all the carefully exposed inches of sock I have glimpsed, yours was the most elegant. The perfectly implied adherence of your shoe/sock/cuff proportions to the golden ratio bore witness to a perspicacity uncommon in this hurried modern world where people too often neglect the aesthetics of their anklebones. Not only did your sock-inch give me a tantalizing glimpse of your empyrean ankles, but your Rawganique socks indicated that you’re environmentally conscious, play the ukelele, and have a lone wolf tattoo on your deltoid. Your sock-inch was so eloquent, in fact, that I was compelled to scribble an ode in praise of its virtues on my hot-bar box:
O! Heaven-crafted anklebones and and socks by boat shoes bordered
Evidence a good gene pool; a mind astute and ordered –
Ah, never trod a finer sole upon a lucky floorboard
Than that which graced the comely foot of my remote adoréd.
So often in this modern world our zeal is misdirected
We waste our time on curing lyme – who cares if we’re infected!
But we’re in luck: our errors now may easily be corrected
If we ensure our anklebones will never go neglected.
There was a third stanza but my kale stroganoff soaked through and it turned into a adulatory smudge. Though my ode is irregular, there was nothing eccentric about your sock-inch. It will live in my memory, next to my memories of gluten and the Obama years.
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