I recently became a man. It was a couple months ago, when it was colder than frozen balloon knots.

It wasn’t when I grew a full beard. It wasn’t when Hank, my mercurial yet lovely Welsh Terrier turned two.

Or even when I asked Kathryn to marry me.

It was when I discovered wool socks. Handknit wool socks turned me into the man I am today. 100%. It was like discovering a sleeping bag for my feet—tight and oh-so-fucking-warm. Over the Christmas holiday, my dad had gotten more wool socks than I did from my grandma. It wasn’t a pretty sight. (He became a man long before I did. He discovered the greatness of wool socks before I was born. He’s a man.)

Wool socks are better than playing Mario Kart for the first time—that good.

And now I had finally done it. I have become a man.

Life is better. I’m lighter on my feet. I smile, obnoxiously so now. Discovering the deep beauty of wool socks unleashed a sense of oneself I had never known before. I’m telling you, life is renewed. This is better than playing Mario Kart for the first time—that good.

Wool socks. The fucking best.