High Socks, Low Morale
Word on the street? Short socks are out. They’re chopped. If the socks aren't ankle-length or above, you risk cornball territory. Long gone are the ankle-length socks, which begs the age-old question: do I have cankles?
I’m 23 years old. To many, I am the spry young grasshopper, the adult equivalent to an infant. To generation Beta, I may as well be entombed in a sarcophagus with bandages twined around my decaying cadaver. My age is hard to define. Some people my age are engaged— albeit deeply religious and borderline Mormon. Others still ask their parents if they can stay out past 9 PM. Regardless, those in their twenties are (at very least) defined by being the epicenter of style. At 23, I should know butter yellow is the color of the summer, that asymmetrical black tops are the new chic, and both younger and older generations’ fashion choices emanate from the combination I toil creating in advance of a night out.
Word on the street? Short socks are out. They’re chopped. If the socks aren't ankle-length or above, you risk cornball territory. Long gone are the ankle-length socks, which begs the age-old question:
Do I have cankles?
This question has been at the forefront of my mind since adolescence. The day I realized boys were cute and making duct tape wallets wasn't getting me any closer to one of them, I sought what made guys ask for your snap and others chortle with their friends when you walked past. For years, I had no thigh gap, no rivulets of blonde hair thinned by how little I ate and thus was denied the adolescent luxury of being considered hot to an 8th grade boy.
There was a girl everyone liked. She had blue eyes and brunette bangs and knew how to pose at cotillion brunch in a Lily Pulitzer dress. In 8th grade, she had a boyfriend, friends of all grades including seniors, friends that she would parade around as she walked from homeroom to calculus. To make things worse, she was absolutely delightful and kind to everyone (including me). She even got the honor award every year for picking up extra trash in the cafeteria in her free time but. BUT:
This b*%ch had cankles.
I mean, it looked like her foot and calf were stacked like Lincoln logs. I noticed in the fall she didn't wear boots, likely to keep circulation moving. I savored the width of her ankles like foie gras. I had good ankles. Back in Pilgrim times, sexy ankles were tempting enough to get you burned at the stake. My ankles dipped, curved, and held form like the side of a cello. When the hot senior guys walked past me to get to her, I looked down and found the splendid, forgiving gift of her cankles that reminded me of my worth.
And now? High socks are in. High socks that can probably hide her cankles as she walks to Pilates class. High socks that will give her a seamless and chafe-free strut towards her wedding planner’s office. High socks with frills, mid-rise to the calf, the great equalizer between cankle and non-cankle communities. Now, I feel cheated.
What happened to meritocracy? What is happening to our generation where we are allowed to edit the size and junction that God created between our foot and our leg? This is against original design. We are creating unrealistic expectations for leg and foot juncture. There are impressionable young girls who may see high-sock girls and never develop a superiority complex about theirs compared to their friends. Do we really want a participation trophy for having ankles? Kids these days are soft. Back in my day, you got your cankles photosniped and sent the groupchat for morale boosting.
Yet, if I want show off ankles like a harlot in the 18th century, I dip dangerously close to cornballification. No, I have to buy some midrise Nike tec socks. Wonder what’s next on the chopping block…