When my husband started wearing socks other than his usual white tubes and plain black knits, I began to wonder. Then when the socks went from discrete patterns to knee-high pastel argyles, I stressed out.

"Honey," I said at breakfast, glancing below the table. "What are those things?"

He pulled his chair away, wiggled his toes and said. "Why they're yellow socks with golf clubs on them."

"But you don't golf."

He returned to the paper, languidly took a sip of coffee and said, "That's true."

As I went through the day, another thought cropped up, not only was he wearing the socks, but he was unabashedly and purposefully entering a clothing store, pouring over the racks and making a conscious decision of which ones to buy. This coming from a man who rarely shopped was indeed quite odd. Then a sudden realization overcame me — when a pattern changes (no pun intended), something had to be up. Another woman, was she buying them? I never had seen any receipts.

"Honey," I said the following morning (his feet d'jour now attired in, what appeared to be, some permutation of the confederate flag), "I'm not sure how practical these socks are."

"What do you mean?"

"You know what happens when you wash socks. Sooner or later one always gets lost. Before you know it, you'll have a drawer full of orphaned socks. In the long run, the expense will add up."

He gave a quick nod, then turned to read the nutritional information on the cereal box. "Wow," he said. "This stuff's filled with fiber."

I half-told him this to see his reaction. Would he defend himself? Did cheating husbands defend themselves? I had no idea.

Twenty-four hours later, sporting a checkerboard design with irregularly placed chessmen he picked up the conversation from the day before. "Socks are never really lost in the wash," he said." They're just stuck to other things, inside a pant leg, tangled up in a towel. It's no big deal."

Of course I already knew that.

Later, after he left for work, I went into his sock drawer. I wasn't sure what I'd find, maybe a love note. But it was worse than I thought. He had expanded the sock space to two full drawers. Not only that, but all the socks, both new and freshly washed were rolled neatly into tight cylinders, not unlike a tray of pigs-in-the-blanket, a neat cornucopia of descending colors, patterns. When had he become so obsessed? Then another thought, more disturbing than the first came to mind - was he exploring his feminine side? I slammed the drawers shut. That night I put my foot down.

"Honey, I think this sock thing is getting out of hand. You need to see someone."

He blinked and screwed up his face. "See someone. Like who?"

"A therapist."

"Don't think so," he said, then added, "These mashed potatoes are very tasty."

That evening I thumbed through the phone book. If he wasn't going to see a therapist, I had to. My world was unraveling.

The doctor looked remarkably like Freud. He was an older man with a trimmed beard and horn-rimmed glasses. The leather couch groaned when I settled in. After a brief interview, he said with a hint of a German accent, "You know it's not the socks. It's never the socks. It's life, it's the never-knowing. Why do we exist? Is there a reason?"

"My," I said, losing all hope. "Are you saying it's futile?"

"In general, yes, life is futile. But, my dear, you are lucky."

"I am?"

"In your case there may be an answer."

My breath caught for a moment. "Really? What is it?"

He stood up and bellowed. "Face him, woman! Demand an explanation!"

"Yes, yes" I said, rising from my misery. It was so obvious. I then wrote a check for one hundred and fifty dollars.

The following morning, I made buckwheat pancakes, his favorite. I even warmed the syrup. His socks were pale blue with green hovering seahorses.

"Honey," I asked, "could you answer one simple question?"

He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. "What is it?"

"Why do you have all these socks?"

He leaned back in his chair. "I thought you'd never ask."

The answer! I was about to hear the answer! My heart pounded. He then eyed me with a sinister glint. "Why, you ask?" he said reaching for my arm, "for the same reason you have all those shoes."