Saturday, August 30, 2008
Why knitting and alcohol don't mix-a parable
My passion this past few months has been for knitting socks.
Normally, summertime means letting all my indoor hobbies go (as well as indoor chores) and spending as much time as I can torturing all my plants by ripping them from one spot where they are peacefully and happily growing and moving them to another spot in my yard where I think they will look better.
Unfortunately, this January a pesky ole' disk in my lower back decided to take a trip to other parts and effectively put the kabosh on heavy lifting and bending for the duration of the growing season. This of course made all my plants deliriously happy and they celebrated by taking over my yard and turning it into a nature reserve for screech monkeys and errant woodchucks.
But I digress....
sooo...my need to play with brightly colored things was satisfied this summer by knitting socks. I knit 6 pairs for myself in probably as many weeks in a variety of obnoxious color combinations. I have no problem making stuff just for myself. I say, what's the point of making something cool like handmade socks and never getting to enjoy them yourself?
I was finishing up my latest pair of socks in a yummy stripey color combo of grey, vanilla and cocoa (mmm..toasty) when my dear KiSA came over to admire them. His feet are not that much bigger than mine, and since these were cozy, chunky wool socks, and a little roomy, he pulled on a pair and said...ooooooo, I like these.
WHOA! (sound of record scratching to a halt) Back away from the socks, buddy!
I realized in a split second that my beloved KiSA would have NO problem adopting these lovely socks as his own - the hot pink and blue heather footies were a little less to his liking - unless I bit the bullet and made him a pair of his own.
So I did.
And they turned out pretty cool, I think.
Except for small thing...which I noticed right after I finished the first sock.
What the heck is that bulge right there on the bottom of the heel?!?
I finished up the first sock while visiting my favorite Sarnarian (what do you call a person from Sarnia?) and being good friends and good Canadians, they always provide great conversation and ample supplies of wine.
Having just made SIX pairs of socks (for myself) I didn't feel the need to consult the pattern while I knitted, and chatted, and enjoyed a nice glass of wine together....or four.
And it wasn't until I was all done and showing off my latest masterpiece to some fellow knitters that I had my answer.
I had knit the ankle gussets on the wrong side of the needle...putting that nice big bump at the bottom of the sock instead of a nice little row of decreases along the ankle, where it's supposed to be, as shown here:
My fellow knitters, members of the next Olympic competitive knitting team, asked me how the heck I managed NOT to notice this horrific, horrendous, bulbous protrusion at the time I was knitting it.
Which leads back to the title of this post.
In the manner of ALL good parables, I'll let you draw your own conclusions.