Identity crisis

My left foot is claustrophobic. But only at night. Come ten or so each night, my left foot begins longing for freedom from its sock, and I have no control over it for the next ten hours. I’ve tried sleeping with both socks on during cold nights, but I always wake up with a bare left foot in the morning. My left foot is a stubborn master. Over the years, that foot’s strange craving has become a sort of security blanket. Regardless of where I am in the world, regardless of what is happening in my universe, I know that come nighttime, my left sock will be discarded.

This week, though, I faced a crisis that sent me reeling and pondering life’s deeper questions. I was lying in bed, left sock off and right sock on, when both of my feet sent up a unprecedented message: They wanted the left sock on and the right sock off. I was thrust into an identity crisis deeper than any I’d yet experienced. Who was I? What was my purpose in life? Where was I? If my left-foot behavior wasn’t consistent, who and what could I really depend on?

I had to make a choice. I’d given up fighting my left foot years ago, but now it was asking for something entirely new. I didn’t think I could handle that type of inconsistency. I refused. As intense as the urgings were, I kept my right sock on and my left sock off. I’ve changed jobs and countries this year. I’ve met new people and adjusted to new foods. I have to have stability in at least one thing. The following night my feet also made the same unusual request, and again, I refused. My sternness paid off: By the third night, my feet were back to their usual desires. Now, I am sitting at my computer, a fluffy sock on my right foot and my left foot bare.