What is it about socks?

I don't understand my own aversion. Blog after blog, book after book, knitter after knitter, I see the most wonderful patterns and the most wonderful colors for sock yarns. So a few month's back, when my dear friend asked me to teach her, I said, "It will be a pleasure". Dutifully, we went downtown to seaport yarn where we chose our patterns, chose our yarn and came home. Since that day of casting on and beginning, I have never picked it up again, either has she. It's not for lack of knowledge, say I exhibiting pride up the kazoo. It's for pure lack of interest. I don't get it. They're portable, pretty, not overly expensive to produce and said to keep one warm and wear well. I am totally apathetic or sock bored, if you will.

I can only surmise that it cuts too close to the bone. My mom was a very poor farmer's daughter from a very poor area of the midwest which she detested. (Insert picture of scarlet o'hara raising her fist to the heavens and vowing to never go hungry. Then replace her with a little farmer girl who vowed to never make socks, again - In my fantasy, that was my mom) It's the only explanation I can come up with - and, at the end of the day, it's probably not true.

Perhaps it is just that I am afraid that the damn will finally burst and I'll start making socks instead of dinner. In any event, if anyone reads this, perhaps they can share with me their own feelings about socks.

I promise, pictures, soon.