... About My Left Sock

I thought we were friends, Reader. Apparently I was wrong. I mean, I would tell you if you spilled ketchup on shirt, or had mascara smudged under your eye, or if your new haircut made you look like Steve Buscemi. If you were really my friend, you would have told me that I had lopsided Buscemi-esque ankles. Because that's what friends do, Reader. They tell each other when they look like Steve Buscemi.

But no. Instead of hearing it from a friend, I had to discover my freakishly mismatched ankles on my own. After years of wondering, I finally figured out why my left sock never stays up. There's no other logical conclusion. It must be because my left ankle is a startlingly strange and unprecedented shape for an ankle to be.

I guess I can't really blame you, though. A ketchup stain is one thing, but pointing out someone's genetic deformity is not a conversation most people are entirely comfortable engaging.

I can't believe it took me so long to figure this out. I mean, you don't often get a good look at both of your own ankles a the same time unless you're really into yoga, but all the warning signs were there. My bum knee? On the left. I get migraines sometimes, always on the left. And, most obvious of all - I'm right-handed. Right-handed. Because my left hand just isn't up to the task.

I must have yanked my left sock up forty times today. The right sock? Nada. Not once. Not necessary, because my right ankle doesn't object to its cozy little cotton home. But ol' Lefty? A vigilante. Lefty likes to live on the edge. Lefty likes the feel of chafing against my shoe over and over and over again. At least that's what I used to think, before I discovered I had Buscemi ankles.

I'm trying to look at the positive. Maybe having a Buscemi ankle isn't all that bad. Sure, it will never fit in with society's standards of "beauty," but despite its obvious speed bumps on the road to success, it could make a critically acclaimed career for itself in thought-provoking independent films. No one will be able to deny its raw talent, or the tenacity with which it throws itself into its gutsy supporting roles.

For all these years, I've been harboring potential ankle greatness, and you never told me? I thought we were friends.