I think I have a hole over the big toe of my right sock today. I know it wasn't there when I put the sock on this morning, so my toe must have worn through the threads in that area sometime after I put my shoes on and before I started writing this post. This annoys me and will be on my mind for the rest of the day until I can get home and remove the offending sock. Of course, I will not throw away the sock. It will remain in use until a hole is worn into the other side, but it will not be worn on the right foot ever again.
I have very sensitive feet. My wife and parents have always made fun of me for how long it takes for me to put on my socks with all of the fine adjustments I make before I'm satisfied. When I was little, I'd refuse to wear any socks that had the seam going over the toes instead of at the end of the toes because of the way it felt. I gradually got over that little hang up, but I'm still picky about just where the bumps and ridges of the seam lie on my foot. Millimeters out of place and I'll be driven crazy with the urge to remove my shoe and start all over again.
I blame my parents for this. I've always assumed that my obsession with the comfort of my feet came from the fact that I was raised half-wild. I rarely wore shoes, and I'm willing to bet I spent the large majority of my preschool childhood without any shoes on my feet. At home now as an adult I still go barefoot. No shoes, no socks, just the skin of my soles against the hardwood floor. I'll put on flip flops to go feed the chickens because I don't like the idea of walking around in chicken shit, but that's about as far as it goes. As a kid, it was even worse. My mom stayed home with my sister and me before I started Kindergarten and I never attended a preschool. At home there was never any reason to wear shoes. We lived way out in the country and the sandy soil and grass didn't have many things to bring discomfort to a couple of unshod kids. Putting on shoes was only for going into town to the store or, later on, to go to school.
Now I have feet of iron on the bottom, able to cross gravel driveways without the protection of artificial rubber soles, but the tops still don't like to be imprisoned, leaving me with days like this when an unexpected hole in a sock annoys the crap out of me.