Menopolysocksicated [men-oh-polly-soxy-kayted]; the condition of inappropriate or over-dressing.

One of the things that has caused me stress in recent years is the loss of short-term memory power.  Fine, that's old news.

Trouble is it keeps getting in the way of normal life.  ...okay, normal for me is not necessarily normal for you, but I think we can agree that there are certain patterns to life for everyone that are standard, even allowing for small variations within said patterns?  Whether I tie my bow to the left and you tie yours to the right doesn't interfere with the concept of there having been a bow tied, correct?  So dressing oneself is a pattern that is set in place very early in life and is generally not something that can be re-programmed.

Ahh, but what about the wearing of sockses? One afflicted with menosoup is inclined to find the programming affected by gremlins and thus becoming a subject of mirth when on public transport.  Now whilst it may these days be something of a fashion statement for trendy young (…+ish) ladies to wear their running shoes into the office, there to peel off the socks they wore over the pantyhose in order to don the sleek pumps, it is apparently a joke for one with greying hair to do the same.  It takes the arrival at the place of work and the doffing of the outer socks to discover that  both socks are on the one foot to understand that joke.

This was one of the very early symptoms of menosoup.  The sense of self-mirth had not yet settled in as a means of coping with the decline in costume coordination.  Having sat at the desk fuming for a good day and a half, it was determined that this method of foot preservation would no longer be applied.  Bare legs only. 

That decision has been held until this day.  Skirts also became a thing of museum status within about - oh - two weeks of the socks incident.

You see, Dear Reader, only ever once do you go out in public with your favourite Liberty print summer skirt turned inside out.  Firstly, it is an insult to the fabric.  Secondly, you look like a loon.

It is hard to tell which was the more distressing; the finding out on arriving home from a ten hour day - or the fact that NOBODY thought to mention it during those ten hours.  This was in the time  when fashion had taken a notion for putting the seams on the outside of garments.  But come on people.  Puuh-lleease.

I couldn't even bear to remember that day for a long, long time.  Then the sense of humour cut in.  Now it is not simply a case of looking like a loon; to the quiet observer of the insane giggling it appears that, in fact, lunacy reigns.  Such behaviour is best kept under the wraps of one's own room if at all possible.  Like the other day.

Oh yes, I'm still at it.

Sitting in class that evening I couldn't quite understand why I felt so 'bundled-up' .  The sari had tied fine and there were no untucked lengths.  The shawls were arranged in the usual manner, so no problem there.  When I got back to the room and glanced in the mirror (unavoidable due to placement) it appeared that I had accrued an extra two or three kilos.  Stripping off the sari and underskirt, the cause revealed itself.  I had not removed the salwar (baggy pants) that I had worn during the afternoon, due to being unable to find my favourite leggings.

Well, okay, this was not really problem.  A bit like a Victorian lady and her pantaloons I suppose.  But it was the removal of the salwar that brought on the astoundment, followed by the cackling.

There were the leggings I had been looking for earlier.

How, oh how, you are asking, could I not have felt these on my legs?  Still asking myself the same thing; put it down to a serious attack of menopolysocksication.