The Loneliness Of Single Socks

I have a collection of unmated socks. They occupy a comfortable corner of my dresser, nestled closely to my t-shirts. Most of my socks are black or grey, but I also own some patterned argyles. In my recent frantic move from my long time residence to my (perhaps) temporary lodgings, I had quickly gathered up all of my pairs of socks and stuffed them into various modes of transport-backpack, canvas carry bags, black garbage bags. Some of the pairs were clean and rolled up, ready to wear. Others were not. But I thought that I'd done a good job of finding mates. They all APPEARED to match.
Appearances are, of course, deceptive.
Laundry done. Socks sorted. Shit! I'm missing some! A quick recheck of both the washer and the dryer, because it's common knowledge that socks will hide. They are the shy children of the clothing world, afraid to come outside and play with the rest of your clothing, scared, perhaps, of being shoved into shoes. But a little coaxing, with promises of better future treatment ("I promise I won't leave you wadded up in the middle of the living room floor for the cat to bat around!") usually works.
But not this time.
This time the socks were gone. And I knew deep in my heart that they were never coming back.
Their abandoned mates miss them. I can tell by the forlorn way in which they lie limply in the drawer, in one big heap. They don't go anywhere anymore because I can't be seen in public with mismatched socks. I haven't told them this, but I know that they know. Socks are the most intelligent members of the clothing world. I do occasionally don them for sleeping, or when I've run out of clean socks to wear around the house. But they do not get along with each other; they miss their mates. I get that. After all, they had grown up together, from the sock factory (or wherever socks are made) to the store shelves to my feet. Presumably, they believed that they would be together forever, either as vital members of my wardrobe or as laundry fugitives, hiding out in dark corners of the house.
What can I do? I have plenty of matched pairs, but I'm forced to keep them apart from the orphans, as I want to spare feelings as much as possible. I wish that everybody would just get along, or that the runaways will someday return. But I'm a realist. I know that, soon, the single socks will outlive their usefulness. I'll buy more pairs. Or go barefoot at home. Whatever my course of action, I know that feelings will be further hurt.
And I know that it will be my fault. After all, if I hadn't washed them, they would still be together. Dirty. Smelly. Relegated to the bottom of the laundry basket.
But happy.