I only wear one sock.
-by Mr. Superlative
Every year on Halloween—my birthday—I treat myself to ten new pairs of the only socks I’ll wear:
Woolly Brand Merino Wool ankle socks. Black. Always black.
I toss the old ones out without hesitation. My socks require no matching, any two I pick are a perfect pair. My sock drawer is a drawer full of certainty. And the sock-stealing dryer—thwarted.
These socks are not socks.
They’re like the comfortably long hugs of a visiting faraway friend.
They slide on like they missed me.
They stay put. They breathe like there’s a ceiling fan in my shoe.
They laugh in the face of stink.
They hold warmth like secrets.
They are thin but full of substance—the Meryl Streep of socks.
People say: “Isn’t wool too warm?”
Wrong. These are not your grandma’s scratchy scarves. These are stealth-fibered miracles that bend to the curve of my arch like they were custom-woven by gods with foot fetishes.
I wear them 365 days a year. That’s more than I wear anything. If cost-per-wear means anything to you, Woolly socks are basically free by March. The large size fits perfectly (they run small), and I will view every other sock for the rest of time with disdain. Once I discovered Woolly brand marino wool, I gave all other socks the boot.
Well, almost all. I do own a novelty pair with my dog’s face. And one pair with Bert, the Muppet most like me. (Fozzy Bear is a close second.)
Quick aside: Fozzy is a portmanteau of Frank and Oz—the voice of Fozzy, Bert, Yoda, and Miss Piggy. You’ll never un-hear Yoda speaking as Miss Piggy now.
Anyway. I checked in this week—Woolly’s running a sale. I thought maybe… a half-birthday splurge?
Nope. They don’t sell socks right now. Not until fall.
WHAT KIND OF MONSTER INVENTS SEASONAL SOCKS?
My feet need love year-round. This isn’t eggnog. This is podiatric religion.
So Woolly, if you’re listening—please come back soon.
My ankles miss you.
(Their wool v-neck t-shirts are my favorite shirt, work shirt, lounge shirt, travel shirt, undershirt, running shirt, and pajamas—all the same shirt. I own six.)
Five thumbs up for Woolly.
Or in this case—five big toes.
About Mr. Superlative
I feel things at full volume. There is no lukewarm. No “pretty good.” No “fine.”
Everything is either the greatest thing to ever exist—or a flaming dumpster of disappointment.
A perfect cookie? Life-affirming.
A bakery cookie? Vial clumps of uck baked with Crisco and existential despair.
I’m here to rant, rave, glorify, and demolish. To turn opinions into performance art. To give five thumbs up to the transcendent—and five thumbs way down to the unforgivable.
If I write about it, I loved it or hated it. If you’re looking for balanced reviews, scroll on. But if you want an unhinged deep dive into how cinnamon graham crackers betrayed me or how a sandwich was so good it ruined every other sandwich on earth—welcome home.
This is a place for extremes.
This is Mr. Superlative.
No brand pays me for my reviews. But you can (so I can quit my job and have more time to write.) Or, subscribe for free… because I’m gonna rant and rave x5 either way. Mostly, thanks for reading.