Jan
28
Written by:
etcav
1/28/2010 12:47 PM
Last week, I was at a friend’s house and she showed me this beautiful sweater her aunt had knitted for her grandson. I was in awe of this workmanship. I had tried to learn knitting when I was pregnant with my daughter years ago. I figured that was the maternal thing to do. I went to a class. I tried to knit and purl, but I just lacked the talent to turn a wad of yarn into a piece of apparel. Two weeks into this project, I had managed to knit together a three-inch lopsided square. Everyone else had made booties or scarves or something. In frustration, I went home and flung the needles so hard that they stuck to the drywall like darts to a dartboard. Then, I screamed curse words that most glowing mothers-to-be should not know.
“New rule,” my husband grumbled as he spackled the living room walls. “No knitting needles allowed in this house.” Usually, I did not go for the head-of-the house macho thing, but I thought this rule might be a good one to adopt.
This knitting experiment was not my first introduction to the world of needles. During my senior year at my all girl high school prep, my mother suggested I take elementary sewing as an elective. My mother was big into fashion and could sew together a battleship if needed. My oldest sister apparently had the same sewing genes. My other sister possessed less of the talent and by the time I came along, the talent had completely evaporated.
However, knowing I lacked any talent did not stop me from taking the sewing class. I was carrying a bunch of AP classes and thought I could use an easy “A”. As it turned out, I spent the last week of the semester pleading with the Home Economics teacher to pass me because an “F” in sewing was going to endanger my college scholarship. Apparently, the sewing Nazi was neither impressed with my plight nor the vest that took me nine weeks to make. She did relent at the end, and gave me a C- if I promised never to work a sewing machine again or become a surgeon.
Despite the emotional trauma needles have brought into my life, seeing that adorable baby sweater at my friend’s house awakened in me the desire to take another stab at knitting. I told my husband of my plans to try again. He gave me an exasperated, yet pitiful look, and asked me if I could consider a safer hobby such as alligator wrestling.
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