United Airlines, Gate F7 O'Hare.

There’s nothing terribly unique about Gate F7 at Chicago’s O’Hare airport. People come. People go. Simultaneous conversations near and far create an annoying hum that is occasionally interrupted by even more annoying static-ky mumblings of gate agents relaying departure times.

“Flight fo-fo-ree-pie now boarding for Ohm-ma. Zones one brew tree.”

Nope, not me. At least I don't think so. I’m heading to Colorado on a business trip and have decided to use this layover to observe, eavesdrop and write.

A quick scan of the gate area shows a typical cross section of middle America. Young. Old. Thin. Fat. Some quiet. A few real noisy.

“Hey... got a big problem here Kovax called Dulaney this morning asking where we at,” barks a man into a cell phone pressed against his ear. My guess he’s in his mid-50’s. He’s sporting a logo-laced denim shirt that struggles to contain his portly spread which is probably the result of too much airport food.

“We’re gonna end up playing he said she said until the cows come home,” he continues as if no one is around to hear his twangy rant. “So now they’re saying Bill is holding this up. Says it’s got nutten’ to do with sales. Yep, he can finalize this deal now... I know. We had a distributer in the office last week and their pricing wuz less...Don’t think so. He’s throwing as much shit against this as he can. Yup... I hear ya.”

An elderly couple a few seats down look up from their bag lunch somewhat surprised when biz guy drops the “shit” bomb. However, they quickly return to the task at hand: ripping open an ornery bag of salt and vinegar potato chips while sandwich crumbs gather in small piles at their sensible shoes. Narry a word is spoken between them. Maybe they’ve been together so long they can read each other’s thoughts. Or, maybe they’re just tired of travelling, tired of each other, or simply tired of life.

“Will a passenger Scheider, peas-port, gate 4 bees,” Says the gate agent.

Bees at gate 4. How about that?

Directly across from me, a young man in a fleece red jacket and white baseball cap has had his head bowed in prayer to the smart phone gods for about 10 minutes now. Every few minutes, he hammers out a message with his thumbs and occasionally smiles.

Four seats down from me is a happy, well-dressed African American woman with a dell computer perched on her lap. She’s wearing fancy cowboy boots that look like she walked through a puddle of jewels.

“Oh yes, girl. She had a thousand dollars," she says while laughing so the word “dollars” sounds like it has six syllables.

“She sho-did. Uh…huh. They went had me sit at the BACk of the plane.” She giggles. “The plane was full, I tell ya girl, I’m afraid my bag is going to end up in Florida-ha-ha-ha.”

Wait, what’s this? There is a new development with the elderly couple. The woman is now in tears, clutching a white tissue to her face as her husband paces back and forth talking on a cell phone. He too is visibly upset and tries his best to relay what is definitely terrible news on to his wife.

Were they on their way to see a sick relative who, at this very moment, just passed away? Or, was this one of those awful moments in life when unexpected (and unwanted ) news impacts your life forever. God forbid that something has happened to one of their children, or grandchildren.

The other passengers waiting at Gate F7 Chicago are oblivious to this scene. I am transfixed, and I feel like I’m intruding.

Noisy business guy is back on the phone barking out sales advice. Attractive African American woman quietly types away on her lap top. Red fleece jacket guy continues to pray to his smart phone.

And I alone watch a sad scene unfold.

The man walks out of sight for a few moments to attend to who knows what, and leaves his wife behind in tears.

The gate agent garbles out that my flight is ready to board. While in line, I am no more than five feet away from this distraught woman, but I choose not to ask her what’s wrong or if there is anything I can do to help. I didn’t want to pry or confess that I have been watching her for the past 10 minutes. And admittedly and selfishly, I didn’t want to miss my flight.

In hindsight, I should have -- at that very moment-- behaved like a caring person rather a typical harried traveler.

I boarded.
She continued to cry.
And somewhere, a loved one was lost. Unkown to me, but dearly missed by an elderly couple at gate F7 at O'hare.

Rebels of the Dark Load

Most household chores occur without a great deal of thought and effort. Over time, we’re able perform mundane tasks like taking out the garbage and unloading the dishwasher with machine-like precision. Bend down. Grab plate. Pivot at waist. Place on shelf. Repeat.

However, there is one chore where repetition does not increase proficiency. It involves a countless -- and often fruitless – series of trial and error where frustration is often the outcome rather than completion of the task.

Matching blue socks.

In many diverse cultures, blue is significant in religious beliefs, brings peace, or is believed to keep the bad spirits away. When it comes to folding laundry, blue socks have the direct opposite effect.

I normally save playing matchmaker for last in hopes the socks will pair up on their own like amorous college students after a frat party, but this never occurs. There they lie; an entangled orgy of blue fabric. The rebels of the dark load.

I reach for one at random, then another. From all outward appearances, it looks as though I’m off to a successful start. Then, through some mysterious optical illusion worthy of a Vegas magic show, the colors no longer match. I reach for another, and the outcome is the same. Close, but no cigar.

There really should be one, nationally approved color for blue socks. Period. Something along the lines of the standard blaze orange for hunters, yellow for school buses, and red for stop signs. It can’t be that hard.

My wife has adopted what I like to call the CIA-KGB approach to sock sorting. She carefully lays all the socks out under a bright light as if she were interrogating a prisoner. “Vare ist your gold toe brother? He vas with you last night. Ve hav vays to make your talk. Speak!! Or, you’ll spend the vest of your life dusting furniture! This approach seems to work although it’s a tad unsettling.

A neighbor of mine has resorted to numbering his socks in much the same way as the cartoon character Fog Horn Leg Horn “kept his feathers numbered in case of emuurgency.” Simply match the ones with the ones, the twos with the twos and so on.
So, what do the experts have to say about the issue?

The National Hosiery Association web site mentions a product that’s designed to prevent the missing sock syndrome and helps with keeping socks matched with their proper mate. Prior to tossing your stinky socks in the hamper, you feed the pair through a device called a Sock-Lock which is a colorful plastic disc with a star-shaped cut out. (Think napkin ring) Sock-locks.com makes the following claims:

Perfect for keeping similar color (but not exactly matching) socks separate.
Each member of your household could use a different color to make sorting laundry a breeze.
Fewer lost and mismatched socks saves you money.
Great for campers and college students. (I assume these are the demographic profiles that suffer from the highest incidents of lost socks)

By the way, a variety pack of 24 will set you back about $30. However, in order to keep socks properly matched, you’ll need to imprison them immediately upon purchase. Your socks would only be allowed to roam when you do.

As for me, you can keep your numbering, your Sock Locks and interrogation lights. I’ve started matching socks by texture rather than color. The way I see it, if they feel like they match, then they must match.