Muriel models my freshly laundered socks.

We’re nearly a week into Wimbledon and I woke up this morning as excited as I was for the start of tournament. On the men’s side there’s a third round meeting between Nick Kyrgios and Stefanos Tsitsipas with blockbuster potential. Nadal’s due to play Lorenzo Sonego, and Jack Sock faces off against Jason Kubler. Sock, who a long-suffering friend can attest is my perennial dark horse pick at every Slam, is up two sets to one as I write this.

On the women’s side, Harmony Tan, conqueror of Serena Williams, dismantled Katie Boulter with such efficiency that the match ended before I was awake (and I’m an early riser!). Coco Gauff takes on her compatriot, Amanda Anisimova, and Qinwen Zheng vs. Elena Rybakina is quite promising. Simona Halep, a personal favorite due to her ethereal movement, will also take the court. (At the peak of her marvelous footwork, her shoes rarely seemed to touch the ground.) She already gave us one of the best moments of the tournament with her emotional sendoff of Kirsten Flipkens; I’d love to see her in the second week here.

Petra Kvitová and Paula Badosa is a matchup that should provide plenty of thrills—I hope the Czech prevails. And then there’s the matter of Iga, who plays Alizé Cornet later today. I’m nervous: Świątek skipped grass court warmups and it shows. Throughout her current winning streak, I’ve made it a habit to wear a particular type of sock and underwear on the days of her matches. I am not superstitious on the order of my great-grandfather, whose life was dominated by peculiar fears. But I’ve certainly done more laundry than usual during Świątek’s run.

And that, my friends, is how this scene came to unfold in my bedroom last night. I’d already scoured my sock drawer, pulling it out to make sure I hadn’t missed anything, when I approached Crankenstein’s dresser with an idea. My wife’s sock drawer is where order and tranquility go to die; she’s the chaotic embodiment of the absentminded professor. As I rummaged through its contents—finding, sadly, several lonely, unmatched socks in various states of disrepair—she asked “What are you doing?”

“Trying to find purple socks so I don’t have to do laundry first thing in the morning,” I answered.

“Why do you need purple socks?”

“Świątek’s playing.”

“And your socks determine the outcome of her match?”

“Of course not, but she looks vulnerable on grass and I have to do my part. I already have the right underwear, I just need purple socks.”

“I have purple nail polish if you want it,” she offered.

“That’s just frivolous.”