Well, in all honesty, it's actually worse then that. I have in fact branched on to other types of socks owned by my dear dear husband. Dress, loungy comfy, but yes, it all started with running socks.
In my defense, I have a plausible reason why I do this. It's not that I enjoy wearing socks that are double the size of my foot (no in case you were wondering I don't have weird freakish clown man feet..."she had man hands. man hands" sorry, I digress) nor do I have some weird obsession with wearing other people's socks. In fact, I hate that I have to do this, but here's the simple truth of it: my laundry is ALWAYS the last laundry to get done.
My husband's needs to be done first so he can get to work. Next comes the girls so they're not looking like some scrubs wearing dirty stained clothes (and by stained I mean pretty much every square inch or their clothes, if you could see my children eat you'd understand why). Then, finally, it's my turn but just before I get that load in the wash, my husband's clothes are already dirty or we run out of towels and my dirty clothes get pushed down the priority list or rather thrown on top of the heaping giant monster of a mountain spewing high above the laundry hamper in my room and beginning to trickle into the doorway. Maybe in reality I'm just waiting to see how far this monster will make it. If I in fact keeping piling clothes on, maybe just maybe, those clothes will ooze themselves all the way downstairs and into the laundry room and they'll somehow find the motivation to just wash themselves. I swear I'll turn those knobs to get the water running if they do. I'll even throw a little laundry detergent in there for good measure. Now folding and returning them to my dresser drawers may require a little more self-motivation on their part, but we'll see.
So anyway, it's not just that my socks are all dirty. Because frankly, that wouldn't stop me. I mean I'm just going to sweat in them anyway, so as long as they're dry from the last run I'll stick those puppies right back on take them out the door (or down to the basement). And I have done this (I can see the disgust on your faces now, but you all know you've took a sniff of some article of clothing at one point or another before you put it on. At least here I'm putting on stinky clothes, to do something stinky, in the privacy of my own stink. And if you haven't, we'll you are far too holy to continue reading my blog, so consider this fair warning my friend) Here's the other problem, my loads are so huge that when I do get around to washing them, I don't necessarily get both partners of the sock pair into the washer/dryer together. So when a load of mine does get finally get finished, I'm left with about 10 pairs of mismatched sox. Different colors, different types. Still, I've even gone right ahead and worn two different running socks one cut below the ankle and one cut above.
But one day, when I had looked for a good 3-5 minutes with no running socks of my own to be found, I took a peek in my husband's drawers. Sweet Mother in Heaven! Rows and rows of neatly paired and CLEAN running socks just waiting to be used. I gasped. Did I dare? Just one pair wouldn't hurt right? And so began my descent into thievery... So wrong but oh so right. The adrenaline as I slip on one of those soft wicking socks secretly with a quick move to my shoes so my husband won't be the wiser and later sneaking them off and tossing them into my own giant mound of dirty clothes, tucking them into the pile just a bit so he'll never know has become an addiction. I'm like a covert operative for the CIA...athletic apparel branch. Really, it's almost a sickness now.
And tonight a new low...I stole a pair of my mom's. Just how low does the rabbit hole go?
QUESTION OF THE WEEK: If my husband or my mom actually read this, will they take forcible action to prevent further criminal activity on my part? And if so what measures could they possible take that would succeed?