The other day, I had my socks on wrong. To be fair, they were complicated socks but not really because how complicated can socks be? I mean, c’mon. I went to my husband to rant about how nothing’s made the way it used to be and even socks don’t work right anymore and what is the world coming to and so on.

He gave me the most perplexed look I’ve ever seen, took a deep breath that somehow felt like a genuine pity hug, and helped me put my socks on the right way as I squirmed like a little kid.

Here’s a hint for those out there who also struggle with their socks: The ankle goes through the hole for the ankle. I know, right? You’re welcome.

These socks are now my favorite socks for so many reasons, chief among them is love. Like Pablo Neruda’s feet, mine, too, are worthy of that woven fire, those sacred socks as magnificent as marriage itself. Love is twice love and what is good is doubly good when it is a matter of two spouses struggling with socks in summer.

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The last two sentences are riff on lines from Pablo Neruda’s “Ode to My Socks.”