I expect, and hope, that everyone is familiar with the premise of lucky socks. If not socks, then that one item of clothing or trinket that you can wear to promote good luck – luckiness if you will.
I, personally, had a lucky pair of pants for a while. They helped me pass my first driving test, got me into Oxford, and made my A Levels a success. Of course they did far more mundane things too, like giving me the confidence to nail an in-class presentation or two, but these are the stand out points. Whether the pants themselves were lucky or whether I was projecting my insecurities onto an item of clothing which gained more emotional power than I am prepared to admit, is a moot point. These were my lucky pants.
As is the way with underwear, however, over the years they had to fall out of use. I began to need some new lucky clothing to fight off all my anxieties. Luckiness is not something I am naturally imbued with, but my other lucky trinkets kept me alive in the period between seemingly magical garments.
I then came into some ‘lucky’ socks. Now, it may be the way that something bought with the express intention of being lucky, will ironically become just the opposite. This would be karma. It does seem a little unfair that one could purchase luck. However, these socks were nice, they came as a three pack, they had female superheroes on. I really liked these socks.
Two out of three pairs of socks are fine, work as socks, and I would not call them lucky. But… in comparison to the one pair of unlucky socks I received, they can practically do miracles. Disclaimer: any Biblical language I use in this post is unintentional… I just feel particularly strongly about issues regarding my socks.
I have worn my unlucky socks – devil socks one may call them, although it would be a little extreme – on three occasions:
The first of these occasions, I left the house with a sense of innocent, joyful naivety. We were going to see a musical! It was, ‘The Wizard of Oz’, and all of me, my mother, and my little sister were very excited. Needless to say, we did not make it to see the wonderful wizard. On the way – and thanks to my reckless choice of sock – we hit a pothole. The car tyre burst and we hobbled along the busy road until we had to come to a stop. Luckily (and I use this word unironically in spite of the evident lack of luck we faced on this night), the AA came out to rescue us within the hour. We did not get to see the musical, however.
Of course at this stage of my life, having only worn the unlucky socks once, I could come to no solid conclusions. No links could be drawn and no coincidences had yet reared their heads. This was one bad night, and the socks were not the only variable factor. I did, however, have an inkling.
The second of these occasions, we were going to see ‘The Wizard of Oz’ again. We had managed to get some more tickets for better seats, and everything was looking promising. The play was also very good so kudos to Sheffield Theatres. Everything was going very well… too well…
Foolishly, I had brought the socks out to redeem themselves. When we got home after the musical, and I was getting out of the car, I dropped my phone and shattered the back screen into no less than a million pieces. Not that I counted. I had been juggling (not literally) my phone, a book, and the programme, and the one I chose to let go of when it came down to it was my phone (#priorities). I merely opened the wrong hand and cost myself about £40. For this I blame my socks. Not myself, for I am blameless, but the two inanimate tubes on my feet which only exist for my comfort. Yes… they are to blame.
The third of these occasions really put the nail in the coffin for these socks. I do still own them and they are not buried, burned, or strung up, because I believe in redemption. They will probably never be worn again, however, so if anyone wants a free pair of socks, hmu.
Anyway, the third occasion was what some may call: ‘A Day’. I came home from Oxford on the train in the early hours for my niece’s birthday. The first issue I had was that someone fainted on my train, delaying it. Naturally I was very community minded and not in any way quietly angry that I might miss my connection, or unconcerned about the man.
– Okay, I may have been a little selfish (only in my internal thoughts… I am British), but with hindsight I feel bad, and this is all that matters. Right? –
– I may also have messaged my little sister asking her to bring more socks from home so I could change out of those damn unlucky ones. Not at all an overreaction or me seeking to blame something, because everyone in the situation was blameless. –
Later on, as I was training it home, everything was going well again. That was when my train got stuck behind a broken down freight train… for 1.5 hours…
It was nice to have a little laugh to myself about my unlucky socks having all of these fun powers (I’m not insane, I swear), but my travel time for the whole day now totaled about 7 hours. The socks then went back into my sock drawer for the rest of term. They have not been brought out since, for fear that something worse may happen. Something along the lines of America electing a president who has literally sexually harassed people and is a general bigot, or Britons believing lies big enough to catapult ourselves out of the EU. Just crazy, wacky things. Things that would never, ever happen…
I have been lucky in pants, unlucky in socks, and generally human in life. Maybe this comes down to my personal unwillingness to attribute any of my successes or failings to myself? Maybe it’s just my overactive imagination? Maybe inanimate objects do hold special powers? We’ll never know.
I do know, however, that my superstitions will never dictate what I do with my life. Unless that thing is starting a blog, in which case I have found adventures in unlucky socks to be a highly useful springboard.