the socks of death

my good friends k&d, ever the adventureous world travellers, recently made a trek to machu picchu and brought me back the most wonderfully warm pair of peruvian wool socks. i've taken to wearing them instead of slippers as i putter around my garret, comfy cozy in my flannel pjs, often nursing my umpteenth mug of hot chocolate. clichéd as it may be, they make me feel loved, and they keep my feet -- my notoriously giant, cold icebergs -- toasty.

the other night, i was doing my sock schtick and revelling in the warm fuzziness of it all, when the phone rang. earlier in the evening, after a brief chat with a friend, i had left the handset in my bedroom on my dresser. i was expecting an important gossip-disclosing phone call, so i jumped up from the couch, uncerimoniously dumping not only one cat, but several books of victorian literary criticism on the floor, and made a mad dash for the bedroom. i stepped on the kitchen linoleum and ... disaster. the socks have absolutely no traction. i'm still not exactly sure what happened, but i remember flying headlong into the wall, banging against the fridge (and knocking off several decorative postcards) and pulling a handful of jackets off the hooks in the hallway all while managing to get my foot mysteriously stuck in the recycling bin. i have bruises in places that one should not have bruises -- most notably in the pride-ular region. needless to say i missed the phone call. the answering machine picked up, and as i extricated myself from the recycling and took several deep breaths, my friend began reciting the lurid details i had so long been waiting to hear.

recently, i've been thinking a lot about domesticity as i beaver away on my the chapter of my dissertation that discusses the relationship between the culture of sport and the genre of the sensation novel. literary critics who focus on the genre are quick to point out how novels such as braddon's lady audley's secret and collins's the woman in white demonstrate that the seemingly safe space of home, so valued by early and mid-century victorians, is anything but. i'd like to think that mary and wilkie would in some way appreciate my own little sensational experience and the new name i've bestowed on my beloved footware: the socks of death.