Under mild but constant pressure from my wife, I recently switched from white work socks to black, as my Michael Jackson defense of white socks had lost its efficacy. Those of you who shop at the big-box wholesale outlets know that Sam’s Club does not sell black socks by the pair; it’s either a dozen pair or a dozen-dozen. It’s a great deal if you are shopping for New Zealand’s National Rugby Union Team but a dozen pair for me, well that’s about 12 years’ worth of socks depending on when I might end up in a wheelchair.

There is a problem with black socks insofar as they are difficult to match after they are laundered.

For the past three decades, my wife has kept a black socks basket in our bedroom. This is not a static collection, the basket is constantly raided for a matching pair and constantly fed clean black socks from the clothes dryer.

In recent years, however, the never-to-be-matched socks in the basket have attained a critical mass. And even though I’ve done the math to demonstrate that it would be more efficient to incinerate the basket with its contents and start fresh, I often find her desperately churning through the collection like a losing player on the old TV game show “Concentration,” looking for a match.

White socks are easier to match. You can see the details in the fabric texture and weave. Black socks absorb the light that falls onto them like a black hole. Just enough information escapes their event horizon to let you know that they do not match the sock in your other hand.

Why are we compelled to wear matching socks? Couldn’t we get through a day or two wearing any socks? Of course we could, and yet I can’t do it. I am compelled to wear matching socks by some genetic matching-sock imperative. This prevents me from wearing socks with different weave or ribbing and I can’t even consider socks of different color.

Good thing I am no longer running for president because I’m sure someone would dig up my clearly racist tendency when it comes to socks. I really don’t know where this comes from but I believe that black socks should be mated with black and white with white. It almost seems wrong, especially in light of the fact that I’m a sock polygamist. If you buy a dozen pair of identical socks, I say mate whatever clean socks that match. One mate this week, another mate the next as long as it’s white with white and black with black.

Not so for the Germans. To solve this natty problem, a German company called Blacksocks has developed a high-tech solution. The Blacksocks people are hard-core sock-monogamists. No swinging singles, no switching partners. Their socks are matched only to their original-for-life mate.

For a cool $189 Blacksocks will sell you a starter kit that includes 10 pairs (that’s 20 identical socks) with each sock sporting an embedded radio button that will transmit a unique identification signal. The kit includes a personal sock-sorter: a small electronic device that activates the button, receives the code from the sock and transmits it to your smartphone. Your phone, with the Blacksocks app, translates the signal from the German (obviously) and gives you data that includes the unique sock ID, its mate’s ID, the wash count, its foot assignment (left or right) and other important information or, as I like to call it, “sock dope.”

But wait, there’s more. The smartphone app also includes a black meter to gauge how much your socks have faded. This is important because if they have faded, they are technically no longer black socks. Not to worry, the app also connects to your personal sock account with Blacksocks so that (Are you ready for this?) — you can adjust your sock subscription to match your needs.

The Germans thought of everything. If one sock gets lost to the dryer demons or ruined when you shoot yourself in the foot, the surviving sock can be mated to another provided that the new mate is also a widower/widow. So, this amazing app functions like a Match.com or an eHarmony but for socks: “single black sock looking for other single black sock who likes to take long walks on the beach at sunset without shoes and then dry off in front of a crackling fire.”

Ah, technology. As Homer Simpson says: “Is there anything they can’t do?”