To Love, Honor, Cherish, and Sort Socks
When my husband asked my father for my hand in marriage, my father asked him a few serious questions and then said, "You do understand that this means you are now responsible for moving all her heavy furniture and dealing with her sock drawer, right?"
JavaDad had already been well-vetted by the family, seeing as we had all known him since he and I were in elementary school, so I imagine my father was doing a happy dance on the other end of the phone conversation, knowing he would no longer have to rent U-Haul trucks to move me cross-country whenever the whim struck me (funny, we ended up moving cross-country again not long after our engagement...)
As to the sock drawer... well, that stems from a few visits when Dad would sit with me as I did laundry and he'd help me sort socks.
For example, during college (late eighties, early nineties):
"My God, how many socks can you possibly own?"
"Well, girls aren't like guys, you have to have different colored socks for different outfits!"
"But they aren't even all the same style — how can you possibly match all of them up?"
Then, when he was visiting me before a cross-country move and I was finishing up laundry so I could pack up clothes:
"My God, you still own more socks than anyone I know!"
"Yeah, but at least I don't have as many colored ones now."
"That's the problem, you have all these white socks, but they aren't all the same! Why don't you buy the same brand so they are easier to match up? You should throw these out and buy all new socks that are the same."
"Well, they were bought at different times and the same brand isn't always available. And it would be wasteful to throw these out and start all over."
Then my husband entered the picture and we co-mingled lives and socks.
"Oh my goodness JavaDad, these socks have HOLES in them! You have to throw these out!"
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