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Not too long ago, I was carrying an armful of socks down to the washing machine, planning to, as I usually do, throw the garments in one by one, when a sudden realization overtook me. What if there was a more efficient way? What if, instead of putting them in one at a time, I were to insert two at once? Would this not decrease, by half, the time it took me to load the washer? Could this be done? Invigorated, I raced through my humble abode to my beatiful washer. My day had just gone from a gloomy catastrophe of misery and self-doubt to something bright and beautiful.



Upon reaching the bottom step, however, a troubling thought infiltrated my newly uplifted psyche. If I had gone through my entire life loading socks into the washer this inefficiently, what else had I been doing wrong? Had everything I’d done to the point been flawed? How could I trust my own judgment? And if I couldn’t, how could I be sure of anything? Even the discovery I’d just made about the socks?



I looked down at the dingy pile of stockings that I was hugging against my chest. It certainly seemed logical that throwing two in at a time would be quicker than doing just one, but how could I be sure? I drew in a deep breath and focused on the washer looming ahead in the dim lighting of the laundry room. There was only one way to find out.



Gathering all my courage, I squeezed my eyes shut and leapt toward the appliance. Its cold aluminum lid taunted me as I lifted it and gazed at the endless black chasm within. My pulse quickened, its tempo doubling, throbbing in my wrists and eardrums. Franticly, I grabbed two socks from the pile, and thrust my hand deep into the washer, poised to make the drop. It was at this moment, however, that an even more distressing thought came to me. If, when I released the socks, one landed before the other, would I truly be inserting both at once? Quickly I withdrew my hand and flung the two socks, as well as the rest of the armful, to the floor.



“Damn you!” I shouted and delivered a swift kick to the pile. A rage boiled deep within me for I realized that, no matter how carefully I placed the socks into the machine, one would, if only by a millisecond, touch bottom first. I dropped to the floor, ashamed and defeated. An emptiness settled over me. What point was there to continuing on? I slid further to the ground, till the mess of socks was at eyelevel, and I began to cry.



For days I didn’t move. I just lay in a haze of despair, drifting in and out of consciousness. A few times, other tenants told me to move, that they wanted to do their laundry, but I ignored them. I ignored everything. I barely breathed. I just remained as I was, certain I would never stand again.



But then one day, everything changed. I was, as I had been, lying face down with my nose touching the floor, contemplating the meaninglessness of life, when something crept into my field of vision. It took a moment for my eyes to focus, to assemble the six tiny legs, the two twitching antennae, and the segmented body into the form of an ant, and by the time I had, it’d drawn close, climbed up onto my nose, and begun crawling up the outside of it.



“Get off,” I growled, the sensation of its feet against my skin infuriating me. “Get off!” But before I could finish my sentence, it hit me. Within that miniscule black creature was the answer to my dilemma.



“That’s it!” I shouted. I leapt to my feet, and carefully brushed the ant into the palm of my hand. “You! You little wonderful, beautiful thing! When you eat crumbs… when you eat crumbs, they dissolve inside you into a liquid! This is what I must do with my socks! If I can refine them into a powder, and then dissolve that powder into a liquid, I will be able to pour them both into the washer at once!” Setting the ant down, I grabbed two socks from the top of the pile and raced up the stairs to the laboratory in my apartment.



It didn’t take long to grind the garments to a fine gray powder, and then to dissolve it in an acid compound that’d I’d already fabricated a few years prior (in preparation for Y2K). In no time at all, I held in my hand a beaker containing the liquefied socks that would finally put my mind to rest.



Careful not to spill a drop, I made my way back downstairs to the washer. I took a deep, steady breath and then dumped the liquid in. Quickly, I looked at my watch. From the time I had begun doing my laundry, nine days, fourteen hours, and thirty-six minutes had passed. I fumbled in my pocket for my notebook and then scribbled down the results.



“Now,” I thought, “the moment of truth.” My heart again thundering, I reached down to the pile of socks, extracted a gray one with red stripes, and held it above the opening to the washer. “Here we go.” I checked my watch, dropped the sock in, and then checked it again. One second. One second! Every cell of my body was suddenly filled with an incomprehensible euphoria.



“It’s okay!” I shouted at the ant who was now scurrying across the top of the dryer. “One sock is quicker! I’ve been doing it right all along! I can trust my judgment! Everything is going to be just fine!” Feeling lighter, younger, and more alive than ever, I let out a singular yelp of joy, then whirled around and marched toward the doorway, ready to head upstairs to my apartment and start my life anew. Before I could, though, a small sound came from behind me. It was tiny and high, and though I couldn’t be certain, it seemed to have come from the ant. Slowly, I turned around to face it. It was standing on its back legs, its big black eyes staring at me from below its twitching antennae.



“Did you just…” I started.



Before I could finish my sentence, though, it spoke again, uttering the words that would change my life forever. “I said,” it sneered, “if you mix two socks together, don't you just end up with one sock?”



I froze, mortified. It was right.