At the end of Second Grade, my friend Buffalo Mary Ann announces: No more ankle socks for us!
Once we go up to the big school, we’ll have to wear knee socks. Or…peds.
Third grade—through Sixth—is in an old mansion up the hill. Apparently it means a change of footwear.
No more ankle socks? But I love ankle socks, love how they look, how they feel. They seem to give my feet a life of their own, often with folded down frills. My feet look like cupcakes, trimmed in pink or red scalloping. Sometimes the socks even have little bumblebees embroidered on them.
I hate knee socks, so confining and itchy.
Little do I know just how bad it is going to get. Garter belts and nylons once I reach puberty. But then, shazam, soon after my menarche, miraculously pantyhose come in and I have neon green ones and orange ones and sheer plaid ones. Then footless tights, which I wear to this day.
And with footless tights, of course, I wear ankle socks. I am sixty-six years old and I have a basket full to the brim of ankle socks.
I have never worn peds, those disgusting nylon slip-ons that cover just the foot, ever in my life. And now I don’t even worry that I ever will.
I count myself beyond lucky that my female form was never crammed into a girdle or corset. That I often do not wear a bra. But as mobility is the most important thing to me, I love that my legs can breathe while my toes are protected and enclosed. Ankle socks.