Regret doesn’t wear socks

Regret and I don’t always see eye to eye on things. Clothes for example. The joy of a talking cat is that you get to hear about it. All the other cats I’ve had in my life simply look dismayed when I chose my clothes.

A few months ago I needed socks, and me being me I just grabbed the first package I saw at the store and called it a day. Wasn’t until I opened them the next day that I saw that the toes of the socks where lettered L and R as pairs.

I checked the packaging. These weren’t children’s socks. They weren’t special socks for morons (or at least weren’t obviously packaged that way). So either the letters were ironic, or the manufacturer of the socks actually believed that their product was so finely machined that mattered which foot they were were worn on.

“You sure you didn’t get the moron brand?” said Regret, when I showed him.

I tried them out on either foot. Couldn’t tell the difference. Over the weeks that followed my behavior, indeed, my entire philosophy regarding the socks, changed markedly.

At first, I didn’t really give a fuck and just wore them as they came out of the drawer. Too Lefts? Who gives a fuck.

Then, it started to become a bit like tea leaves for the day. Left on the Left, Right on the Right and it was going to be a good day. Two Lefts. No good. Two Rights. Worse. Left sock on my right foot, right sock on my left, all hell was likely to break loose.

That has slowly morphed into me being very sure each morning that I get it right. Left on the Left. Right on the right. If I get out of sync with the laundry and can’t make them match, I just call in sick.

“They are moron socks,” said Regret this morning. “Only they aren’t just for morons, they turn you into one.”