Sock Glue

Some time in the late 1990s socks became an important part of the ‘look’ for Japanese high school girls. Since the start of that fashion fad socks and their size, color and manner of collapsing around the shins and ankles has been critical, determining the acceptable degree of cool, or in Japanese jargon, kawaii. The young girls achieve just the right sock look with meticulous adjustment and shaping, holding the socks in place with dabs of the indispensable sock glue.

This fashion is so widespread today it is practically second nature to the average person and most give it little if any thought—about as rare as the sight of a teenager anywhere listening to an iPod. During the time I lived in Japan it was my usual habit when riding trains to people watch. Ask any New Yorker and they’ll likely tell you it’s sometimes better than reading or napping. Careful not to be rude with open stares, I managed to learn quite a bit about the Japanese people through observation on the trains. The loose, baggy socks always intrigued me for a couple of reasons. First off, impressive as a great look that works well for the girls. Can’t say that about many school girl notions of fashion, but the drooping sock look is definitely a cool style that enhances the figure. Whoever first came up with the idea of oversized baggy white socks has a sharp sense of fashion.

Continuing to observe this style over a couple of years, it finally occurred to me that the fall of the socks around shins and ankles was anything but accidental, and was instead something not far from sculptured cotton. But how did they do it? Then one afternoon the answer was acted out in front of me. Waiting for a train a group of high school girls stood nearby laughing and enjoying the release from school. One shortened her uniform skirt by folding over the waistband a couple of turns; another applied a faint blush of color to her cheeks and another was bent over repairing the hang of her large white socks. I noticed she used something in a tube, applying it to her shins, then pressing the sock against it. Viola! The secret revealed. It was some kind of sticky substance that held the socks in just the right places.

Mmm…That could solve a now and then problem in my life too, I remember thinking. On the next visit to a drugstore I asked about this sticky stuff the school girls use on their socks, and without a blink the clerk pointed out a rack of colorful tubes, all of it the school girl requisite, SOCK GLUE. I bought the first of many tubes that day, a mild water based roll-on glue, and from that day forward never had trouble with badly made socks slipping down to the ankles. Hearing about my new and very practical discovery, a few friends laughed and swore they would never use such a thing. But the laughter didn’t stop me, and I only wish I could find some of the same stuff here to put the hold on troublesome socks.

Memories Are Made of This

Flashes of former days, pangs of nostalgia and thoughts of then…

Rainy Season Tokyo—

An all day pall of pounding rain. The streets of Shibuya a mess. Walking is rarely easy there, but harder still in the curtain of rain. Being out and about becomes a rumple of wet umbrellas, damp bodies, crowded buses and trains—all of it nasty and made horribly uncomfortable by the raging humidity…

Now hot, humid, bright and oppressive, the rain in temporary retreat but leaving a dampness of multiplied stickiness on clothes and skin.

Overheard at Church—

Masako E. has an ingrown toenail, but is afraid of needles. Yuki Y’s father has to have the other big toe amputated, his second loss to diabetes. Jonelle’s phlebitis spread to her vocal chords and forced her to give up choir. Pray for her. Pray for them.

Sights on the Train—

Young businessmen on the way to work, the ubiquitous blue suit, and on their feet a pair of snowy white socks inside black or brown dress shoes. Flash forward twenty-five years and it’s no longer the standard white socks, but the hugely popular white or gray ankle socks with the business suit and dress shoes—a flirtation with fashion crime.

Waiting for Kumiko—

Tokyu Plaza, place of old memories over the years in Tokyo. It once housed an excellent Kinokuniya Bookstore, but since the large Shinjuku branch at Times Square opened, this one has slipped into the category of second-rate. No more stationery goods, few books in English…

Sitting in the lobby café, a fourth or fifth regeneration café now called the Morozoff Soda Fountain. Crammed full, like everywhere in Shibuya at 6:00 pm on a Saturday. Sipping iced coffee, wondering if the waitress balancing a tray of what looks like six fruit sodas chartreuse green and bubbling with scoops of ice cream will safely work her way through the congested squish of tiny tables.

Doutor Housewives—

Amazing to me that others in the small room of eight tables are able to sit as though all around them was a state of perfect quiet. Conditioning from birth is the likeliest reason. On the other hand, I have to bite my tongue to stifle a rude remark. A gaggle of giggling, chattering, clacking housewives enter and wrestle three tables together, close all the window shades to darken the sunlit room, and like magpies on Amphetamine, all talking at once destroy completely the peace of a late afternoon. They have a peculiar skill of all talking at the same time, yet never missing a word of what each one of the group is saying.

Big Time—

Buying the trainman’s pocket watch at Nakajima-san’s small secondhand shop on the corner. Admiring the watch in the window, giving in after a week. It is a big watch, a Seiko quartz, silver-plated, made in 1989 and the very same model used by all train drivers and conductors in Japan. Cheap at ¥8,000, it becomes one of my treasures.

Renovation—

In 2004 Yokohama Station was renovated, a completely new redesign of the 1928 structure. Soon after the renovation, which erased the old station’s interior layout, I find myself inches from an anxiety attack in trying to find my way out. Certainly there are improvements, but the new station is now an impossible maze, an almost-prison designed to keep people wandering in underground circles looking for one of the fifty or more exits. Often taking as much as thirty minutes to find the desired exit, then discovering you’re on the wrong side for buses going to your destination. Call it a preview, a shallow hell.

One Christmas Dinner—

A fine cook, Kumiko outdoes herself this time. We sit down to a beef stew, a huge salmon pie, a Japanese salad, an Italian-style green salad, assorted cheeses, Japanese pickles, two bottles of Cabernet, a chocolate cake and pots of coffee. I go home later with new fur lined slippers.