My partner is a kleptomaniacal cross dresser

My partner is a kleptomaniacal cross dresser.

That is, he steals my black socks and wears them. It doesn’t seem to matter if they have pink stripes, yellow polka dots or purple daisies. He wears them anyway.

You would think that after spending all day every day in a room with thirty hormonal, judgmental 12-year-olds, he would succumb to pre-teen pressure and desist. But any tween ribbing (good natured or otherwise) seems to slide right off him like eggs off Teflon (or socks off sweaty feet).

You would also imagine that working in an industry where the ratio of men to women is something like 1:30, one of his female colleagues would have gently worded him up on his fashion faux pas. But if they have, it’s had about as much impact as a nerf ball on a Sherman tank.

When we first cohabited, he announced that any black socks in the house were his. I thought he was kidding. Then I found everything from my black trouser socks to my lacy love heart socks in his drawer and realised he was serious.

I think he was amused by his black sock rule. I think he thought I ought to be amused, too. After a month of having to hunt for any pair of my black socks, I no longer found his little sock foible endearing. After a year of  finally tracking down my expensive silk socks, only to find them pilled and stretched beyond recognition, I could no longer see the funny side. After a decade of living with a partner whose sock drawer closely resembled a black sock devouring vortex, I was more than a bit over the sock saga.

I tried pointing out the vast differences between black Explorers and frilly black knee-highs (you Tarzan, me Jane) to no avail. He still wore my black socks. I tried explaining the question in to which he placed his masculinity every time he donned floral footwear. He still wore my black socks. I tried crying, shouting, joking, bribery and the silent treatment. He still wore my black socks.

I could have worn his socks, but floppy, holey Explorers were just not my scene. I could have hidden my socks but he’d only have hijacked them during the laundry process. I could have just capitulated and gone with blue or green or magenta but there really are some occasions where a girl needs to wear black socks. Besides, by the time we had hit the second or third year of our relationship, he had manoeuvred well in to the navy, forest and scarlet realms with the excuse that they all look black in his drawer in the dark. My two excellent points (one: turn the light on, two: why are my socks in your drawer in the first place?) seemed to bounce right off his ear drums like a kid on a castle.

I continued to pursue a solution in a non-screaming-and-tearing-my-hair-out kind of way.

And he relentlessly, systematically and heartlessly continued to kidnap my socks.

Finally, after more than a decade, three pairs of miracles materialised. I found them in Target: black socks with iridescent rainbow stripes/stars/dots on the bottoms. For all intents and purposes, black, but totally and unmistakeably feminine and distinctly mine, even in the dark...or so I thought.

He wore them today – the ones with the stripes.

But that’s okay. It won’t happen again.

On my way home from work tonight, I am going to K&D to buy a chainsaw to cut his feet off. Then he won’t need socks anymore.

Mwah-ha-ha-ha!