Going To Work In Sports Socks

I’m not saying I’m a needy dependent but my wife did make me change my socks this morning before allowing me to go to work. I thought I looked perfectly respectable. Dark grey suit, white shirt, black socks and shoes. Fionnuala took one look at my feet and shot me a horrified look – ‘You are NOT going to work in those socks,’ she proclaimed. ‘Why not?’ I replied. ‘Because they’re sports socks!’ she hollered back.

I was utterly oblivious I was heading into the office in running socks. My brain computes black socks as black socks. There is no further sub categorisation. My mind was blown. I’d been doing this for months. Had anyone at work noticed? Did my work colleagues gather by the photocopier to point and snigger as I walked by? Oh look, there goes Running Sock Guy,’ they would guffaw, just out of earshot.

What about running? Had I been hitting the roads in fluorescent tops, shorts and black business socks? I was probably the laughing stock of the local running community, a pariah to be mocked and shunned. Would I be forced to return my marathon medals for crimes against running fashion? I shook my head sadly, my dreams of a seven figure Nike sponsorship deal shot down in flames.

My father was the most resourceful and practical man I’ve ever known. He could turn his hand to anything. If you threw him an assembly manual and a spanner, he could assemble it. Garden shed, swing set, aircraft carrier, he would figure it out. The one thing he couldn’t master were matching clothes. Every morning he would walk into the kitchen and ask my mother if his outfit for the day met the required standard. Often, he was sent back to the bedroom to ‘try again.’

The other day Fionnuala caught Adam going to school in black shoes and ankle socks. It was up there with the cardinal sin – black shoes and white sports socks. Even I know that is a complete no no. Three generations of Black men, joined by the common strand of being utterly incapable of dressing themselves. Thank God for women, I say. The power behind the throne….and the wardrobe.

We fight all our lives to be independent, to break free of the apron strings of our parents and live our own lives. Yet, so often, we are lazy and allow ourselves to lapse back into old habits. We lean too heavily on others, and allow them to take responsibility for our decisions and actions. That way, it’s so much easier when the wheels come off. We can blame somebody else, as opposed to taking the hit.

Life is all about decisions. Will I take that job, will I marry this person, what socks will I wear to work today? They vary in levels of importance. Some we make without even thinking, others we deliberate over for weeks on end. In the end, we have to make a choice, choose a fork in the road and set off down it. Every action has a consequence. The only way to find out what that is, is to take a deep breath and go for it.

How independent are you?

Do you allow others to make decisions for you?