You awake the next morning to the annoying, repetitive blaring of your alarm. You crack an eye open. It read 7:00 AM. At first you're concerned you'll be late for work, then you remember it's Saturday, your day off. Still, you alarm should be ringing at six o'clock, not seven.
You sit up and stretch, wincing as your back pops a little. To think, just last year you were still in your 30's. Middle age catches up fast. You look down to see you're fully dressed, and still wearing your shoes. You can't help but chuckle to yourself. You hadn't gone to bed fully dressed since your oldest son was born. You yawn and scratch your gut under your shirt, feeling the coarse hair on its round form. You really miss they days when you were in shape. As far as you can remember you hadn't had abs since you were in college.
You get out of bed and shake the stiffness out of your limbs. What had you been doing last night to come home so exhausted? You have vague memories of bowling, which was odd because you usually bowled on Wednesdays or Thursdays, not Fridays. You didn't much like the Friday crowd, especially that asshole Mark. You scratch your cheek, feeling the thick stubble. While you usually held off from shaving during the weekend, it feels particularly thick this morning. Your goatee could use a trim besides. You'd once considered buying that Just For Men stuff to cover up the grey in your hair and beard, but then you decided that there really wasn't much point. If you were going to go gray, then you were going to go gray. No point in hiding it.
Stumbling and still only half awake, you make your way out into the hall, passing Tim, who's carrying a big bowl of cereal and on his way to the living room to watch cartoons.
"Mornin', son," you mumble, stifling a yawn.
He beams up at you. "Morning, Dad!"
"What'cha eatin'?"
"Fruit Loops."
"Mmmm, boy." You tousle his hair and make your way into the kitchen. You're about to pull out the coffee mix when you see there's already a freshly brewed pot. You'd have to thank your wife for that, later. You pour yourself a cup and take a drink. Pitch black, just the way you like it.
After you down your mug, you make your way to your bathroom, only to find it's already occupied. Not wanting to disturb your wife, you instead go to the hall bathroom. You root around a bit before finding your extra disposable razors. You lather your cheeks up with shaving cream and slide the razor over your skin, sheering the stubble and cream away. A few minutes later, you're almost done with the ritual when you hear a familiar voice.
"Mornin', son." The voice is deep with a bit of rumble.
"Morning, Dad!"
"Watch'cha eatin'?" You recognize the voice. But it's your voice. How could that be?
"They're still Fruit Loops, Dad."
"Mmmm, boy!"
You hear heavy footsteps pace up to the bathroom door. There are a couple heavy knocks on the door.
"Son?" the voice rumbles. "Don't forget you have soccer practice, today."
The footsteps then move away from the door.
You wipe the remaining shaving cream from your face, revealing your newly smooth cheeks. You decide to risk it and open the door a crack, peering out into the hall. You see a man from behind. He's of good size, decently muscled, but looking a little wide at the waist. He has black hair with specks of gray in it. You note the hair on the back of his head looks a little thinner than the rest of his otherwise thick hair. When he reaches your oldest son's door he turns to the side and peeks in through the doorway. He has your face. He's you! But that's impossible!
You close the door again, before he can see you. You look back into the mirror. You were the only you that you knew of. You examine your face, a little weathered, but strong, your high forehead creased with concern. You look down at your hands, the palms calloused from hard work and the backs covered in black hair. Past your hands you see your none too large gut, the result of too much beer, stress, and age. Past your stomach you see you're still wearing your shoes.
There's something important about your shoes. You know there is, you just can't remember what it was. They're the brown loafers you usually wear on your way to go bowling, or on your days off. They were none too special. Maybe it wasn't the shoes. You tug up on your right pants leg, revealing a sock. The sock looks like most, but you can just make out something unique. You sit on the toilet lid and position your right foot on your left knee, peering closely at the ankle of your sock. You can just make out green pinstripes running vertically along the length of the sock.
Suddenly, it comes back to you. The magic socks, the shoes, your friends, and all the other memories from the previous day return to you. You're not who you thought your were. The man in the hall wasn't the impostor after all, you were. Your hand flies to your mouth as your memories return, encountering the bristles of your goatee. No, your father's goatee. You're terrified that you almost lost your identity. You needed to put your own shoes on, now!
You peek back out into the hall to make sure your dad isn't around. You creep out of the bathroom and make a beeline for your room. By some miracle you get there without incident and lock your door. You quickly pry off your father's shoes, your feet feeling clammy from being enclosed for so long. You look around for your shoes, panicking for a moment when you're unable to find them. You eventually find that they had rolled underneath the edge of your bed. As quick as you can, you shove your oversized feet into the much too small shoes.
For a minute, nothing happens. You're terrified you might be stuck as your dad after wearing the socks and shoes for too long. There certainly couldn't be two of you. You sit on the foot of your bed and breath in and out to calm yourself. It was a trick you learned in college after getting stressed out over exams. The fact that you never actually went to college does little to help calm you.
After a minute or two, you decide you have to peek. You look into the mirror on your dresser to see if any of the changes had started yet. You still have dark hair, speckled with gray, a high forehead creased with concern, and a goatee, grizzled with age.
You put a hand to your mouth again, heart beating fast. "Oh my god. I'm stuck!"
You stand up to pace nervously, and almost topple over. After you steady yourself, you see your feet now fit into your shoes just fine. In fact, looking down at your arms, it looks like your body hair is thinning and retracting. A feeling of relief washes over you. You were changing back, but very slowly. Perhaps it's just nerves, but you're almost positive that this change is taking a lot longer than it should.
A few more minutes go by and you can tell you've started to shrink. Your pants are bunching up at your ankles and things look higher than they normally do. That thought is incorrect. Things are lower than they normally are, and are returning to normal. Yes. You can also see the lines on your face are slowly disappearing as your body youthens. One by one, the specks of gray in your hair vanish. Your hairline slowly crawls forward as well, as your hair begins lightening from black to a sandy blonde. The features of your face soften, becoming less square. Your hard-earned muscles begin shrinking, returning to their lanky state. Your gut begins to shrink as well, being one of the last things to go. By this point you're laying on your bed, waiting for everything to finish. It feels as though it's taking forever.
After what feels like much too long, you feel the changes eventually stop. You stand up and look back into the mirror. You see your teenage body wearing clothes made for a man twice his size. You look down at your thin, hairless arms, You lift your shirt to see your flat stomach, with only a hint of hair below the belly button. You feel your smooth cheeks, which only needed shaved about once every other week, but you could go for a month or two with nobody noticing anything.
You don't feel quite right. You feel too small, too young. You feel that you don't belong like this. You aren't a man anymore, you're just a kid.
You shake the thoughts away. No, you were supposed to be like this. This was your body. You just need time to get used to it again. Maybe, just as you were in your father's body for a long time, being in your own would help you feel more normal.
You pull the magic socks off and put them back in their hiding place, along with your dad's loafers. Perhaps it would be good to give the socks a rest for a while. A long while. You change into clothes that actually fit you, finding most of them to be too colorful or young. You pull out your cell phone to see if you have any messages from George or Colby, only to find you still have trouble remembering how to navigate the seemingly complex interface. You eventually give up and stuff the device into your pocket. You would have to figure it out later.
The alarm clock reads 8:15 AM. Your whole ordeal had taken over an hour. You take a deep breath and walk out of your room.
You see your dad is in the living room, sitting in his easy chair. He's on his own smart phone, his brow furrowed in concentration. He looks up as you walk in.
"Mornin', son. Uhm, do you remember which of these gidgits is my email?"
You take the phone and glance over the myriad of shapes and colors. You begin swiping through the icons, hoping to find one labeled "Email" or the like.
Tim, not liking his cartoons interrupted with people talking int he background stands up from his own chair and snatches the phone out of your hands. After less than a second, he hands the phone back to your dad, the email app opened. "It's not that hard, guys. It's always in the same place."
Your dad frowns, looking at the phone. "Thanks, son. Since when did you need your phone to check your email? Now they're cameras, too? Honestly, sometimes I just don't get the toys you kids have these days."
You find you agree with him completely, which is strange. You've always been the most exasperated one when your dad didn't get modern technology, no you don't get it either.
You quell a rising panic. You just needed time to adjust. You would be fine after a day or so. That's what you keep telling yourself at least.
Little do you know, there are more serious consequences to your actions that have yet to come.