"everytime I look up I just trip over things..."

Hundreds of years of human experiences have compiled and contributed to what I call "suburban culture." A culture of commonplace conveniences such as minivans that make carrying large objects and children easier, microwave ovens that will cook your food faster and remote controls that will enable you to burn less calories than ever before while watching TV.
Often I find myself regretably unaware of modern comforts, like baby carriers and MP3 players. But this afternoon, the concept learned was more basic than usual:
I discovered socks.
It's not that I hadn't worn socks when it was absolutely necessary, like to work-out or when wearing boots. But generally, if I don't need them, I don't wear them. I don't wear shoes if I don't have to either, so you would be correct to assume that household slippers are out of the question.
But my feet get so cold in this house with my husband, a member of the theromstat gestapo, as many husbands are.
So I walked over to my lonely sock drawer and pulled out a brand new pair of fraggle-looking socks that were a gift from someone who clearly didn't know me very well and put them on.
And you know what? My feet have been warm ever since.
And! I'm blissfully unaware of waxy, dirty, low-pile texture of our ghetto carpet and/or dog chew-toy debris that I'm probably stepping on.
I feel silly for not previously partaking in something so

pro·sa·ic
adj.

1. Matter-of-fact; straightforward.
2. Lacking in imagination and spirit; dull.