In which I dream about socks

Literally. Saturday evening as I was getting ready for bed, I paged through my latest stack of library books, ending with Vogue Knitting's The Ultimate Sock Book. And there on page 163 they were--the most beautiful socks I have ever seen. Now, let's be clear: I do not make socks. I rarely wear socks. (They don't work so well with heels.) I do, however, have a beloved pair of cowboy boots that I wear often and a lovely pair of handmade socks would suit them well. That's why I perused the book in the first place. Flipping through a book about sock knitting is, for me, akin to trying to read a book in Mandarin. I can admire the pictures, but that's about all. (Remember, I don't knit in the round.)

But these socks! Embroidered stockings, to be precise, and absolutely gorgeous. I lusted for them, and if you wonder why, look here. Gorgeous, aren't they? But I looked at the instructions and sighed. While I fully intend to become a better knitter at SOME point, those stockings are far beyond my ability, and since I have a book to write this summer, I won't be improving my skills anytime soon. (When I'm writing, I like undemanding handwork. When I finished work on Friday I sat watching "The Birds" while I altered two skirts and put a zipper in by hand, which sounds rather accomplished, but wasn't at all. The point was, I didn't have to read a pattern or count anything.)

Oddly enough, when I fell asleep Saturday night, I dreamed of those socks. I walked into a shop and there they were, hanging from a peg, perfectly made and just waiting to be taken home. I took them off the peg and they were mine, in that instant and fairy tale way of dreams. The dream dictionaries I consulted seem to think that dreaming of socks means that one has received big news or is protecting one's foundation. I just think they were part of the great cosmic stew of subconscious--something pretty to warm my feet.