When I get rich I’m going to build a room in my mansion just to house my socks. The vaulted ceilings will rise majestically from floors made of smooth and polished marble. Velvet lined boxes crafted from aged-oak barrels used to make only the finest bourbons will line the magnificent brass shelves and the carved wooden feet of a dressing mirror will grace the corner of the room. Stained glass windows will let only the softest, most golden light into the room, focusing on the comfortable leather chair and ottoman resting in the exact center of the room.
A butler will be hired in order to assist with the momentous task of selecting a single pair to be worn for the occasion, whatever it may be, and to speak out at such times as a blue sock has been matched with a black sock by the careless and un-clever laundry staff, preventing any embarrassment on the part of the wearer.
And I will sit in the chair, in my silk smoking jacket dreaming of the days when I had to work and imagining myself among my friends, while I put on my socks, threadbare, patched and worn.