<p>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.</p>.<p>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.</p>.<p>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?”</p>.<p>Already irritated, I snapped, “I don’t share with thieving young men!”</p>.<p>He pointed, unimpressed. “The pen you’re holding? Yeah... that’s mine.”</p>.<p>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.</p>.<p>The students noticed. Of course, they did. Gasps turned to snorts, snorts to giggles, giggles to full-blown cackles.</p>.<p>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!”</p>.<p>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.</p>.<p>Then the principal arrived. “Why,” he demanded, “does this classroom smell like a rejected laundry commercial?”</p>.<p>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.</p>.<p>“Sir!” I gasped. “You’re clearly the real Fashion Icon of the Year!”</p>.<p>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. </p>.<p>Yes, moonwalked. Until he tripped over a rogue sock, spun theatrically, <br>and landed in chalk dust with a triumphant “Ta-da!” The class gave him a standing ovation.</p>.<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>.<p>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.</p>.<p>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?”</p>.<p>Already irritated, I snapped, “I don’t share with thieving young men!”</p>.<p>He pointed, unimpressed. “The pen you’re holding? Yeah... that’s mine.”</p>.<p>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.</p>.<p>The students noticed. Of course, they did. Gasps turned to snorts, snorts to giggles, giggles to full-blown cackles.</p>.<p>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!”</p>.<p>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.</p>.<p>Then the principal arrived. “Why,” he demanded, “does this classroom smell like a rejected laundry commercial?”</p>.<p>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.</p>.<p>“Sir!” I gasped. “You’re clearly the real Fashion Icon of the Year!”</p>.<p>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. </p>.<p>Yes, moonwalked. Until he tripped over a rogue sock, spun theatrically, <br>and landed in chalk dust with a triumphant “Ta-da!” The class gave him a standing ovation.</p>.<p>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.</p>
