I’ve mentioned how picky dancers can be about their leotards, their pointe shoes, and their diet.  But, for me, no stronger proclivity exists than that of my selectiveness when it comes to socks.  I have been known to wear exclusively unmatching socks, like the tragic result of a greedy dryer, but on purpose.  Why, you ask?  I wish I had a proper response, but I suppose I’m just an odd duck.

As a child (I’ve been told) my sneakered, booted, and mary-janed days included nothing short of twenty shoe-removal-sock-adjustment breaks.  My little feet just couldn’t bear the feeling of a thick seam traversing the tips of my toes, a wrinkle under the metatarsal, or- mon dieu!- the dreaded heel slip.  Talk about a brat Princess and the Pea situation…

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