A sock drawer is an odd place. When you first move in you try to pack it all pretty but more often than not you end up cramming a bunch of unmatched, and lonely socks into a box and forcing them to get along . . . Kind of like a stake dance. Which is probably where Mark and I met (no one really knows because it wasn't exactly a profound moment). He was the tall tube sock with those weird colored stripes and I was the green toe sock with a hole in the big toe. Needless to say, we weren't exactly a match. But over time our weird colors faded and thank goodness someone patched up that hole. When we bumped into each other years later at the BYU bookstore we were both pleasantly surprised. We caught up on old times for a bit and I could tell that Mark wanted to ask me out but apparently I was "intimidating" (as toe socks often are). So, we parted ways. A few weeks later I was having a birthday. I mulled over inviting Mark on FaceBook; I clicked yes . . . then no . . . then yes again. He almost didn't go because Motorcross was on TV. Luckily he did. It was a dance party, and despite the fact that his dancing skills had not improved beyond those stake dances, we had a good time. Here's the proof:
This is a picture of us at my 22nd birthday
(gettin' pretty old for a sock).