SOCKS
My brother was staring at me, giving me that face I hate. The one that combines condescension, disgust, and you’re-so-retarded all in one look, and that frequently comes before the sarcastic phrase, I don’t judge.
“What are you wearing?” he asked, looking pointedly at my socks. I hadn’t played volleyball in almost two years, but I’d dug out my old volleyball socks that afternoon—the long white ones that go up past my knees. Their splendor was clearly displayed by my basketball shorts.
I shrugged in response, trying not to give him any reaction. My brother’s like a mocking fire: any sort of reaction only fuels his sardonic attacks. “They’re my volleyball socks.”
He gave a dramatic, pained sigh. “Good thing I don’t judge.”
I so called that one. I rolled my eyes at him. “It’s just a Sunday afternoon, it’s not like I’m going into public like this. Deal.”
“No no no, Bug, you shouldn’t wear that. Ever. Unless you’re playing volleyball. That’s why they’re called volleyball socks. You really need to learn how to dress yourself,” he said with a disparaging glance up and down my entire ensemble. He’d been hyper critical of my wardrobe ever since we got home from college. I think he was just bored and needed something to entertain him, and I was close to hand. He would also tell me, as part of his brotherly duties, whenever my hair looked terrible or my make up was ill-conceived.
“I’m so terribly distraught that you disapprove,” I said dryly. He shook his head and walked away.
It’s really not that I have no fashion sense. I’m not as acutely aware of style as my brother, no, but I’m not hopeless either. High school and my best friend cured me of only wearing jeans and volleyball t-shirts years ago. But I had been depressed when I’d gotten home, and the next thing I knew I was wandering about the house in basketball shorts and long socks. Aside from the obvious want to change into comfortable clothes for lounging about the house, the socks reminded me of the six years I spent playing volleyball. They reminded me of long, exhausting tournaments, glorious victories and shattering disappointments. They reminded me of a time when my own effort was all that mattered, when I would push myself to the limit and beyond. They reminded me of pain and triumph, and of a time and game where I learned how to work and love working, and love myself. They made me feel strong and capable.
Earlier that day I’d driven for forty-five minutes north to my friend’s church. I’d only met him this past year at college, but he had already moved deep into my heart, and I counted him among one of my dearest friends. He’s one of those ridiculously happy people who make you smile whenever you see them, no matter what you were feeling before that. He was a little ball of sunshine. And he was leaving for two years, to go to Canada. I was proud of him. He had chosen to serve his God, to go and preach wherever he was sent. That’s a hard thing to do, and I had already seen how much he had grown and matured from making that decision.
But I would miss him terribly, and I had to tell him goodbye today. We lingered in the doorway for nearly ten minutes after I said that we should go. It was a hard thing to tell him goodbye. I cried for most of that long drive back, causing my eyes and head to throb for hours after. By the time I got home I’d calmed, but it was a numb sort of calm. I greeted my family a bit woodenly before going to my room to change—into my long volleyball socks, into happy memories and old strength.
Sometimes clothes are more than just fashion statements. But it’s not worth the bother of trying to convince my brother.