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Socks! Why did it have to be socks?!
Where Emma battles the humble sock.
Well, after the Great Sock Debacle of Tuesday. Things have returned to a type of normal.
How can your *lose* an entire drawer full of socks? I mean a whole drawer!?
Frankly, the humble sock is the epitome of frustration to a person with a disease like Parkinson’s. Something so simple can cause a whole world of challenges.
Picture waking after a
restful night’s sleep on a luxurious linen-cladbed…Waking groggily after a restless night getting entangled in bedding as you do the Parky Jig*. Stottering to the bathroom via a few bumps off the corridor walls, negotiate clambering into the bath and after wrestling the shower curtain (I’m convinced it has a vendetta against me) relief under the deliciously hot water. Those few precious moments where there is minimal demand on thinking or movement and I can feel good.
Dry + Dress. Stage 2.
Somedays air drying is the only way; nice in summer, death in winter. (Thank you to the excellent soul who slipped a DM recommending towel bathrobe…at 45 I finally get why they make them 💡) My clothing has evolved in the three years since my diagnosis: elastic is my BFF. Minimal buttons, zips and twiddly bits. But oh god! Socks.
The bending. The co-ordination. A foot bending the opposite way to your shaking hand trying to slip that tiny hole over the twitching toes. Whether yours is a worsted-hose or a small-wrinkled silky number the application of socks to feet is a bore. This morning was a rapid 5mins per foot. Other days I don’t even try. It’s a small thing in the scheme of a day and yet it can set the tone.
Is depression caused by socks a thing?
If I don’t achieve this act I feel like Parkinson’s has me. If I do achieve victory over a fuzzy tube of fabric I feel invincible! Well, that’s a little exaggerated. But you get the idea.
I think it’s tough as a human who has always been so capable of stuff; practical, emotional and motivated to get on even if I was winging it a little. To find the simple tasks are now dominant thoughts. I don’t want to worry about socks, elasticated waists or unbreakable wine glasses. I want to think big thoughts, make exciting art, provide stimulating conversation. The bitter irony is the more I rail against the minutiae the more out of control it gets. Parkinson’s feeds on stress and makes sock dressing even harder.
Gandalf is right, of course. (Wizard 💪🏻) That self-love and kindness, taking the time to gain a sense of perspective is key. So to that end, I have been sock shopping. Oh yes.
They are even called Early Bird...
I’m old enough now that any sartorial elegance I once had means I can officially Not Give A Damn and wear what I want.
Be good and be careful of the socks…still pretty convinced they are trying to take over the world.
P.S. I really need some more friends who love to
drink wine, swear discuss new monetary theory. Take pity and forward to your friends or arch-nemesis.
*Parky Jig: no matter how exhausted you may be, the body starts twitching, leaping and shaking. Especially just before an attempt at sleep.