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I never throw things unless they are unbreakable. Just another example of my finely evolved brain wherein my frontals are in firm control over the reptilian aspects of my brain. The query is: “Once calmed, do I want to clean up a mess?” Better to throw pillows I think. In other words, I practice safe anger.
Okay, so I”ve set the parameters of the story I’m about to relate. It happened only hours ago, so my recall is still clear and I’ll attempt to tell the tale objectively and forthrightly.
Sunday, had gone swimmingly. (I have no idea why swimmingly suggests “going well” but it seems to, but I digress.) I had dressed and prepared for my first foray out in days.
A deep fog encompassed the meadow and I careened over the equivalent of an Alaskan interior outback terrain, (lurking Rooskies?) and escaped unscathed onto the rock road. With not much in the way of further terror, I made it to church.
Once there, I attended a fine Adult Ed class on Martin L. King, Jr., and then had the distinct honor to serve chalice during communion. Following that, I attended a quick meeting to organize part of our Lenten schedule, based on Richard Rohr’s book, The Naked Now: Learning to See as the Mystics See. From there, I made my way to that ubiquitous American icon, the Walmart. (Yeah, I know ALL the reasons I shouldn’t but their prices can’t be beat, and some of us need that savings.)
I wearily packed up the Bronco with foods and other so-called sundries and made my way home. The fog returned as I neared the northern plains of Iowa, and once again, I took the luge approach to getting to the house. I’ve yet to see anyone beat my time, so the gold is probably mine.
The rest of the day passed uneventfully, other than the wild bellowing/screaming of the Contrarian as the Vikings managed to beat their opponent and not get the comeuppance the Contrarian perceives they so richly deserve. We were deeply embedded in the Golden Globes (only because of Ricky Gervais mind you, who is to me, hysterical) when it happened.
I was and had actually thought that I could clearly put Sunday in the win column, but no, such was not to be the case. I was knitting on my sweater. Yes, I can see you knitters sitting up and taking notice. You have been here I am sure.
I knit slowly, not being able to understand let alone master the technique of hands on needles knitting that my friend Ruth from Visions and Revisions claims is necessary to be a fast knitter. So after some weeks of work, I had about eight inches done. As I started on the only difficult row, the notorious #15, I realized a mistake. I frowned, I recounted, I examined my purly and knitty stitches. No matter, it was on the wrong side, and would be hidden in the cable. I corrected, and moved on. Down at the next cabley area, I discovered error two, and this seemed worse. And then I realized I had made a fatal mistake (back instead of front holders) and well, doom started to descend.
I tried, I really did. I whimpered, and carefully started taking back one stitch at a time. But when you get the cable, you have to take off a series and let them slip back into normal position, and the unraveling begins, no matter how careful you are, and you swear, and sweat and cry and moan, and then it happens.
I lose my mind. Viciously I yank one needle free of all its stitches! As I start to yank the other needle free, a howl/scream like a girl erupts from the Contrarian. “You nearly poked out my eye with that needle!” “No I did not, the point end never was at you for goodness sake!” “Yes it was, oh, I came this close to being a cyclops!” I roll my eyes and begin pulling on the yarn, unraveling it in long strokes.
Another screech of terror from the far end of the couch. “You nearly slashed me with that yarn!” “Are you insane? A piece of yarn cannot slash you!” “It was the end I tell you, and it sliced past me with rapier speed, like a veritable bullwhip!” I look of recognition crosses my face. Indeed I have looked certifiable crazy directly in the face.
I rip and rip until I have a pile of yarn. “Aren’t you supposed to wind that in a ball?” the demented one asks plaintively. “I don’t care about tangles! That’s the least of my worries, ” I spit out through clenched teeth. Finally I pick up the entire mess, yarn, needles, markers, cable hooks, directions and counters and stomp to my office, where I throw the entire mess in a heap on the table.
Minutes later, I’ve recovered my senses, my calm center, and I’m ready to OM my way through the evening. “Hmmmm, now what to do,” I muse. Shall I scrap this entire pattern as being snake bit and possessed by the devil, or begin again? I can barely stand the idea of beginning again. It’s an awful pattern with a cast on of over 200 stitches, which makes the whole enterprise a tight mess in the first place. And there is the fun of looking for another pattern.
“Well, I see a blog post in all this,” I chortle. The Contrarian harrumphs, “you nearly blinded me you know.” “Yeah, you will receive prominent mention my love, for as always you provide just the right amount of riotous otherworldly brain dysfunction to really sell the story.” Don’t you agree?
Existential Ennui 