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“I love your sock,” my husband says to me this morning.
“I have on two socks,” I reply with indignation.
“Maybe in our son’s world,” he says. I’m not sure what he means by that. My son wouldn’t be seen dead in argyle.
“They totally match. They’re gray, pink and black. See?” I hold out one foot for his inspection.
He shakes his head and walks away, laughing. At least he didn’t take any photos, captioning them “dumbass” and sending them to our friends like he did the last time he didn’t approve of my running-inspired outfit.