Franki doesn't know this, but

The reason I knit socks is because of her.

We took the same spinning class at M1 a long time ago, and at some point Franki put down her drop spindle and picked up her knitting. The socks were gray with red; I remember that. She was knitting them for the boy. I could not believe my eyes. Why on earth would any person knit with glorified thread on glorified toothpicks?

Me (please note, we are referring to the *then* me).. I knit chunky. Big. Easy. I can go to Walmart and buy myself a fine pair of socks. In fact, they come dozens in a bag if you're in the mood for bulk.

The memory of those stupid socks, of stupid thread, on stupid toothpicks, moldered in the corner of my brain for a long, long time. One fine day I found myself Googling 'sock pattern', because maybe it wouldn't be impossible to knit something so fine.

So there.

Franki; I didn't even have a stash before I met you. I wore socks that could possibly melt. Phew. It boggles the mind.