Image for representation.
Credit: iStock
It was one of those mornings when the universe clearly decided I wasn’t meant to win. My alarm didn’t ring (or maybe I slapped it into silence), I missed breakfast, the coffee machine had an existential crisis, and I left home with a brain functioning at roughly 12 per cent.
Haggard and hollow, I flew through the school gate at 9 am sharp, dodging students like an Olympic hurdler. In the chaos, I forgot to log in at the staff desk—a rookie error I’d pay for later. I crashed into my classroom, flinging my bag down with dramatic flair, all while dreaming of toast and a five-minute nap under my desk.
Roll call was an adventure. Half-asleep, I marked a student absent. “I’m right here, Ma’am,” he said from two feet away. So much for ninja stealth. A minute later, a boy asked, “Ma’am, may I borrow a pen?”
Already irritated, I snapped, “I don’t share with thieving young men!”
He pointed, unimpressed. “The pen you’re holding? Yeah... that’s mine.”
My cheeks turned the colour of overripe tomatoes. I looked down, searching for dignity—and that’s when I saw them. The socks. One foot wore an angelic white sock. The other? A brooding black—like the void where my confidence had just disappeared. I blinked. Nope. Not an illusion. One sock screamed job interview, the other whispered goth poetry slam.
The students noticed. Of course, they did. Gasps turned to snorts, snorts to giggles, giggles to full-blown cackles.
I stood frozen in my mismatched shame until a bolt of either genius or desperation struck. I struck a pose and declared, “Today, we explore fashion as rebellion—and I am your muse! Two socks, two moods,” I explained. “This, my darlings, is high fashion. Individuality on each foot!”
Astonishingly, they bought it and ran with it--literally. Socks flew through the room. Students swapped them mid-chaos. One girl wore a sock on each hand like fuzzy gloves. A boy stuck his socks into his spiky hair. Someone turned theirs into sock puppets narrating tragic backstories.
Then the principal arrived. “Why,” he demanded, “does this classroom smell like a rejected laundry commercial?”
Before I could answer, he stepped forward to deliver doom—then bent down to tie his shoes. That’s when I saw it: one sock green, the other electric blue.
“Sir!” I gasped. “You’re clearly the real Fashion Icon of the Year!”
The class erupted. Applause. Whistling. Someone even threw confetti—probably worksheet shreds. The principal froze... then winked. “I always knew mismatched socks would catch on,” he said—and moonwalked out.
Yes, moonwalked. Until he tripped over a rogue sock, spun theatrically,
and landed in chalk dust with a triumphant “Ta-da!” The class gave him a standing ovation.
I took a deep bow—the newly crowned Queen of Sock-sibility. So next time you wear mismatched socks—own it. Strut. Smile. Who knows? You might just start a revolution from your feet up.