This is the story about how I became a fancy lady.
Right before Thanksgiving I took myself on a little vacation from my job here at Cosmo. But it wasn’t really a vacation. Sure, I took the PTO and logged off my work email for a few days, but in reality, I was heading to a house in the woods to finish a draft of my novel. (Yes, I am aware of how painfully eyeroll-y and annoying this sounds, and no I’m not sorry about it. I had a great time.)
To prepare for four days of sitting in front of my laptop and cooking things like “cheesy beans” (it’s the best, DM me for the recipe), I decided to bring only the coziest of items: fleece-lined sweatpants, wool beanies, worn heather tees from college. I was basically going to be a marshmallow, and I was pumped about it.
But then a few days before I left on my sojourn, I was opening my mail at work and the heavens dropped into my package pile. A PR company had sent me a pair of cashmere socks from the home goods brand The White Company. They were grey and soft and when I stuffed my hands inside, they felt like pure luxury. Obviously I brought them home and packed them in my bag immediately. Here’s why.
They make me feel like my best self.
Now, what kind of woman actually owns cashmere socks? A friend’s very chic, very cool mom, I learned, after posting about them on Instagram. “Omg Elyse loves them, obviously,” my friend wrote in a DM. “Me in ten years and also in my dreams,” another pal texted after I shared my good fortune. Because, come on: Who is going to spend $50 on socks? Who is going to buy items for their feet that need to be “hand-washed and air dried?” Who is going to put their cash-freakin-mere on their dirty-ass feet and walk around?
They pair well with self-care activities.
This woman, I decided, is probably the same kind who can eat tomato sauce without splattering her sweater. She likely has a Nancy Meyers-style kitchen and shops at Eileen Fisher (dreams). She whips up casual Panzanella salads in the summer and braises slabs of meat in the winter. She plays the piano for fun and always picks the right bottle of wine. She is my hero.
So up to the Catskills in New York they came. I spent the first day wearing an oversized sweatshirt and leggings, and some hearty wool socks (perhaps I was too intimidated to break them out day one?). But on day two, I knew it was time to try The Socks. I tugged them on in the morning and instantly felt fancy.
They come in hella soothing colors.
Who is she? I thought, as I padded around the wooden floors, the soft fabric kissing my ankles. A lady who doesn’t give a fuck if she’s getting her cashmere dirty, that’s who! While wearing these socks, I scrambled perfect eggs and ate them with avocado sprinkled with Maldon sea salt. I untangled plot points that had left me stumped the day before. I sipped coffee and thought about stuff. I evolved. I grew.
They’re high-maintenance, but worth it.
Just like that, I became the me of my dreams. I had transformed from a shlubby, braless writer, obsessing over her deadline, into a haughty, distinguished woman whose feet deserved this kind of pampering, who was the kind of person who has totally normal thoughts like why yes, these socks are worth $50.
When I took them off before bed, I folded them neatly together and tucked them back into my suitcase, knowing that the next day I would have to wear regular socks. But it was okay, because I could always pull them on again after I—checks tag—hand washed and air dried them.
The bottom line…
Nutty? Maybe. The best socks I’ve ever owned? Yes, says the woman who went home and bought two more pairs.