I called my mom the other day. She was darning socks. She has always darned socks.
I used to darn my socks. Now I don’t. Now when they get a hole in them, I throw them out.
I’m of two minds—two characters—about sock darning.
One character imagines my mother watching as I toss the socks out; socks that, except for the holes in the heels, are perfectly fine; easily fixed. That character—fearing a raised eyebrow—feels a compulsion to darn the socks. Reduce; reuse; recycle.
My other character doesn’t want to darn socks. That character wants to write. Or dance. Or hike. Or hang with Bubba. She doesn’t want to darn socks.
My anti-sock-darning character has prevailed; she tosses the socks. But she hides them under other things when throwing them out.
That’s because The Judge—the disapproving judge—still presides in her mind.