The Playground

I've been working on one knitting project for several weeks; in fact I think it's been a solid month of enduring faithfulness. Despite the intense Ravelry temptation, I did not succumb to newer fancier yarn or a cleverer project. Sheer tenacity carried me through carpal tunnel and tendonitis pain, reversing shaping to match the other side, even tearing out half the project at one point; I kept my ardor singularly trained and I was determined to see this project to the finish. I cared about this one and didn't want to treat it like the others. I even bought new yarn for it rather than digging through my bags of second-hand stuff. I believed I had outgrown my capricious knitting ways and was ready for serious commitment.

So much for knitted monogamy! The tedium of the same needles, same stitches, same yarn for a month - I tried to convince myself of the comfort and security of such monotonous loyalty, but I was living a lie! Where's the exhilaration of feeling those new fibers for the first time? What happened to the breathless anticipation of the kids' bedtime so we could be alone together on the couch without distraction? Where's the romance gone? I thought we shared a mutual satisfaction and pleasure in the act of creating - the truth is, she was faking it.

I've now had done to me that which I've inflicted on so many other knitted and crocheted lovers. I gave up when boredom became intolerable; I moved on to prettier yarn and untried projects, stashing the old one in my "to do" bag until I happened to be between relationships. I might take her out now and then and show her some attention, but the fire never truly re-ignited.

Today infidelity delivered its karmic retribution. I seamed the sleeves, meticulously lining up stitches from each side. I knitted the last two knits and purled the last two purls of the crippling ribbing, and I was finished, finally blessedly finished. I hooked a split ring stitch marker through the last stitch to hold it in place - I know enough about fickleness to not cut the yarn too soon - and ran the stairs double time to stand in front of the full-length mirror and don my comfy brown shrug for the first time.

Oh! The ribbing stretched so nicely as I slid in one arm, and the form-fitted sleeve provided just the right amount of femininity. The heady giddiness of completion evaporated as I stood in front of that mirror gazing at myself, shoulders stuffed like sausages into the strangling ribbed edging. My arms pinched awkwardly behind me like a clucking pecking chicken with gimpy wings.

The back was not true to its measurements so it didn't fit across my back properly. Once I was in it, I was stuck. Casey had to wiggle it and slide it and bend my arm in shocking ways to peel away the lovely brown shrug that had mutated into a hateful straight jacket.

Now I'm burned. I may never settle down again with just one work in progress. Have to keep my options open.