One of life’s greatest mysteries is where lost socks go to die. Because every few months, I find myself with a half empty (pessimistic, I know) sock drawer. It’s like they vanish into a black hole or evaporate; I can’t work it out.
I don’t know if the washing machine is eating them, or if I’m losing them on nights out, like I do with lipliners. Either way, I was recently forced, in a pinch, to rob a pair of socks from my mother’s drawer.
There were two problems with this: one being my mother’s feet are significantly smaller than mine, the other being, my mother exclusively wears ankle socks.
I managed to squeeze my toes into her socks relatively easily. But I would be lying if I said that I wasn’t embarrassed by the fact that I was soon wearing ankle socks as I walked through Dublin.
Now, that might sound dramatic. And maybe it is. But there are certain fashion statements that signal your age. The length of your socks is one of them.
From what I’ve seen in historical documents, like the stacks of early 2000s magazines in the attic of my house, ankle socks were once the ‘it’ thing.
A fashion forward sock, that made it look you weren’t wearing socks. Nothing screams fashion like having an awkward inch of bare skin between your jeans and shoes, apparently.
On the other hand, I am the generation of the crew sock. It comes over the ankle and covers the lower calf.
While Gen Z’s predecessors try to conceal something so tacky as a sock, we incorporate socks into our styling. A white sock with a black strappy shoe? That’s what all the cool kids are wearing.
So, it’s no wonder, with my socks hidden in my shoes, I was speed walking through Drury Street. I could feel the eyes burning into my pasty ankles.
The Dublin creatives would spot my socklessness, a mile off. ‘Lamb dressed as mutton’, I could hear them chant.
Not that there’s anything wrong with mutton. Or lamb. Or either of them dressing as the other, for that matter. But I am only 21.
I like that I’m still being asked for ID when I try to buy a drink. Like the collagen isn’t about to start rapidly draining from my skin.
And I know that certain ways of dressing would get me into Café en Seine (always for over 23s) without so much as a ‘what’s your star sign?’ That is most certainly not what I’m after.
If I paired my ankle socks with a pair of skinny jeans, for instance, I could pass for an age where Botox is no longer ‘preventative’. Again, not that there’s anything wrong with that.
But I’ve got a few more good years of frowning in me, before I get there. Skinny jeans are a little less like an item of clothing to me and a little more like a historical artefact reserved for those that know how to dial up internet or use a landline.
It’s not my fault that the ideal shape of jean changes with each generation. But it is my job as the youngest, hottest, coolest and humble-est (if my editor will allow me to say so, myself) gal in the Irish Examiner to keep the masses in the loop.
And unless some kind of millennial revolt takes place, skinny jeans will remain firmly outside of that loop. Sometimes, these things just need to be said.
When I wore a pair of ripped jeans in front of my grandad a few years ago, he asked if I had been attacked by a rabid dog. He had a point. So, we all have fashion blind spots.
I’m doing God’s honest work by letting millennials everywhere know, your jeans don’t need to look like they’ve been spray painted on to your body. It’s not your fault. You haven’t been thinking clearly.
The skinny jeans have probably been restricting blood flow to your brain since the millennium. But it’s 2025. Being able to inhale and exhale fully is back in.
You may be insulted by what I’ve said here. I can’t argue with that. But I can assume that you will probably need to buy new socks at some stage, before the end of 2025.
May I leave you with the supplication to buy a pair that reaches the lower calf? Ireland used to be a good Catholic country. And your ankles are making Gen Z uncomfortable.
Think of the children (me).
