I was the middle of three girls. No boys in our family. None.
When I was growing up, boys always seemed a little weird to me. A little wild. A little unpredictable.
And I often noticed, when we were at a house where Boys Lived, and were near them when they had their shoes off, that they never pulled up their socks.
No. They just let them, somehow, slide lower and lower down their shins, so that eventually the entire sock seemed to be hanging at the hinge of the ankle, with the end of the sock dripping somewhere Way Past The Toes. Sometimes it was Even Worse.
I did not understand this. This seemed uncomfortable to me, at best. This seemed Lazy, or Inattentive, or Wrong. Didn’t they notice? Didn’t they feel it? What could possibly be so important that it would distract them from the momentary correction that was so obviously required? Just sit for a moment, would you, and Pull Up Your Socks!
It made Perfect Sense to me.
But now look:
I promise I didn’t stage that At All.
