so i’m making another cardigan.
to counteract the terror caused by the previous cardigan.
with a gauge of 30×40 stitches.
after six days of maniacal handiwork, the body is done. the collar and front button band alone took a whole day.
then it comes to me to try the thing on.
and before i can say “HOLY FUCK IT’S TOO SHORT” i realize that it is, in fact, too short.
i knew i had to make at least 13 stripes instead of the 12 in the pattern, because i have a freakishly long back, and because i prefer my cardigans a little longer anyway. i also clearly noted how majorly anal frogging the hem would be, because the front band attaches directly to the side of the hem, rendering any alterations to the length both futile and unsightly. but did it occur to me, at any point, to count the freakin’ stripes? the short answer is, no. the long answer is, due to a critical risk of me starting to break things, also no.
not that i didn’t do that too. TV remotes, flower pots, nokias, whatever. in real life she was so calm and composed and boring. on planet torture knitting she went freakin’ berserk.
|just because you think there’s 13 don’t make it so|
i’ve heard it said that knitting is a metaphor for life. you try your best to make good, but sometimes life (and yarn) just wants to throw turd-covered curveballs at you, and all you can do is enjoy the taste.
but why is it that when it comes to me and knitting, everything has to go through the fuck-it-all amplifier before any good can come out of it? it’s like i’m subconsciously sabotaging my own work. maybe i don’t feel like i deserve any yarn-related happiness. where’s freud when you need him?
i’d like to say, next time i’ll count the stitches, next time i’ll be super smart, next time i’ll be so careful and conscientious that i’ll get it right from the word go.
but that would be a lie, and you and i both know it.