What's happened to the missing socks?

Solving the mismatch mystery that causes so much misery in the laundry

Gary Dymski | Home Work

October 4, 2007

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Two socks enter the washer. Two socks exit the dryer.

As household tasks go, what could be simpler? A pair of socks goes from drawer to feet to dirty clothes to washer and dryer and back into the drawer.

Of course, anyone associated with a social group that faintly resembles a family knows the truth. Socks do disappear. Virtually every residence in the free world has a drawer, pile or basket of mismatched socks. Millions - no, billions - of socks drift aimlessly without mates.

"Washing machines and dryers eat socks," says my wife of 27 years, who oversees the laundry in our seven-person family. There are other theories, of course. Sock heaven, is one. A Bermuda Triangle for socks, is another.

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For whatever reason, our family's mismatched-sock pile grows and grows,like an expanding cotton-blended Blob. Two or three times a year we try to match socks. Far too often, they remain alone, sentenced to the rag pile, one wipe closer to the garbage.

The first case of mismatched socks likely dates to 3,400 years ago, when the Hittites, who lived in present-day Turkey, designed a cloth foot covering to prevent sand from getting between their toes. The Hittites, incidentally, wore sandals. Sandals over socks. Trendsetters, those Hittites.

Today, sock sales in the Unites States are about $4.9 billion annually. Perhaps because I seem responsible for about a $1 million of those sales, I just lose it over mismatched socks. As frustration builds, I erupt, like any normal, sock-wearing person.

Once, when my daughter Allyson was playing competitive soccer, her black game sock came back from the wash inexplicably partnered with one of my black dress socks. When I put them on, the sports sock reached my knee; the dress sock climbed past my ankle. "Who in their right mind would put these two socks together?" I shouted in a rage.

My wife, returning clean clothes to drawers at the time, answered: "If you don't like how we do socks, you can do the laundry." By emphasizing "you" and modifying "laundry" with a word unsuitable for this page, my wife revealed to me for the first time that she is truly capable of murder.

Since no matches existed for these black socks, they, too, were exiled to our pile.

"I share your pain," says Gail Hammond-Gibson, 48, who manages the laundry in her Freeport household of four that includes husband Bill, 40-something, daughter, Nowell, 15, and son, Julian, 13.

The family has a bag of lonely, single socks. "The problem is the bag of mismatches is larger than our supply of good socks," she says.

Although she has no proof, she wonders if socks are made specifically to disappear, or whether there's a conspiracy between the weavers of socks and appliance manufacturers. "It's all about buying new socks," she says.

Hammond-Gibson's son seems to be the only family member who has a plan for keeping his socks together; he folds the tops of one open end into the other. "At least they get to the washing machine paired up," mom says.

The youngster is on to something, says Audrey Reed-Granger, a marketing and public relations executive at Whirlpool, a Michigan-based manufacturer of appliances. The journey from hamper to laundry room is fraught with danger for socks.

Contrary to popular opinion, washers and dryers do not eat socks, Reed-Granger says, and she insists there is no conspiracy between the hosiery industry and the appliance manufacturers.

There are logical explanations for single-sock phenomena. First, Reed-Granger says, most socks do not make it to the washer in pairs. "Boys shoot dirty socks into hampers like they're shooting basketballs," she says, "so socks end up behind furniture or under the bed."

Then she asks me if I've ever followed my wife as she carries a load of clothes to the washer.

I reluctantly admit that my wife often leaves behind a trail of single socks, T-shirts and unmentionables.

"So here is proof that small items, most often socks, never actually get to the machine," Reed-Granger says.