I wasn’t the brightest kid. I was as gullible and easily convinced as the next rugrat on the… I wasn’t the brightest kid. I was as gullible and easily convinced as the next rugrat on the playground, barely topping the 4-feet mark on the “watch me grow” chart. I believed in some ridiculous manipulations. I bought into the idea that my belly button was the result of my older sister poking my stomach and pretending to drill. I thought that it was proper Nintendo etiquette for my sister to kill off not just Mario’s, but also all of Luigi’s lives before it was my turn to have a go at rescuing the princess. And I trusted that the funny tasting French toast sticks my mother prepared for my dinner were indeed my favorite breakfast treat being served to me in the evening and not really fish, as the box indicated.

I may have been gullible, but I knew damn well how to manipulate the system to get the better end of the deal in numerous situations. Many times, this meant throwing such a fit that I was too annoying to tolerate for any length of time. I eventually got whatever it was I wanted — be it the coveted front seat of the car or the exclusive thimble playing piece for Monopoly.

Ever the actress, I had my parents convinced that I was “too young to know how to (fill in the blank with asinine household deed of choice)” until almost the age of 12. This freed me from doing nearly any chore that called for an exertion of effort or time. Such chores were instead delegated to my older, wiser sister who apparently had the strength and mental capacity to handle a challenge of immense proportions, such as the laundry.

I was never off the hook entirely, though. My parents always managed to scrape together something stupid that I was qualified to do. Since actually doing the laundry was such a monumental task, I was demoted to the rank of sock matcher. After the clothes were pulled from the dryer I was to pick out all the socks and match them up prior to them being placed in whomever’s drawers they belonged. It was a basic task. But for a bratty, little kid who had little on her mind besides roller skating or playing with the neighbors, it was the equivalent to being sentenced to a lifetime of scrubbing the kitchen floor equipped with only a toothbrush and a bar of soap.

Thus, it was at an early age that I discovered that monsters really do exist. Contrary to popular belief, they do not lurk in the depths of a dark closet or in a remote corner beneath the bed. No, once again Disney and its clever, yet misleading movie, “Monsters Inc.,” have led you all astray. They live a humble lifestyle in the warm confines of the dryer where they eat not both, but a single sock from a pair, ensuring that if twelve socks go into the dryer, without fail only eleven survive and emerge from the 45-minute tumble.

Apparently, they are not merely a childhood phenomenon either. Currently, there is one of these gremlins residing in the dryer of the dingy basement located below my apartment. In true college-student form, I’ve succumbed to doing my laundry only in a case of dire necessity — in other words, when I am plumb out of undergarments or towels. As I fold all my freshly cleaned and dry clothes, I begin to experience relapses from childhood when the time draws near to match the socks. To this day, I cannot stand pairing up those damn socks.

It is not out of the ordinary for them to remain in a pile on my bedroom floor for several days until I am able to pry myself away from my Instant Messenger for 10 whole minutes and put them away. At the conclusion of the matching session, without fail, I am left with an odd number of socks staring me in the face, all taunting me by saying, “Ha ha, Sucker!” Dryer Monster strikes again — one more addition to my collection of partnerless foot garments. It is an assortment that grows exponentially, for their long-lost mates are never retrieved — forever astray in the abyss of dryer-monster land.

I still might be a dumb kid at heart, but unless my socks make a triumphant return, I must advise: proceed with caution when forced to do your laundry.

If Colleen Bayus had a dime for every sock she’s lost in the dryer over the course of her 21 years, she’d be hanging out in a condo in Miami, not in her classy South Oakland apartment. E-mail her at [email protected].