Or more to the point, who is not counting? That would be me.
Contrary to popular belief, I have not stopped knitting. I have not forgotten how. I've just been indulging what I laughingly call my creative process by not working on a nearly-done pair of socks because in order to complete them, I would need to stop and count. I don't like counting. It involves numbers. Numbers are evil.
The pattern I was working on is Ann Budd's Diagonal Ribs socks, and I was knitting them in some lovely handspun, handdyed Corriedale:
The pattern is fairly easy, and the yarn looks gorgeous. Not to mention the fact that I need these socks, since of course I only wear handknit socks (insert disdainful toss of the head). The problem was that the pattern repeats are not easy to count, and I am fairly particular about making two socks that are the same size.
So there I was, getting to the point where I knew I was just about ready to start the toes, and realized this would mean stopping. And counting. The inner diva threw a hysterical fit.
This seems to be a regular feature of any creative project that I am engaged in. The drama queen has to balk at a crucial moment right before completion, and there is really nothing to be done but wait calmly and patiently while she storms around the house, railing at the gods about the unfairness of it all. This can take some time. She believes (and I have to admit I somewhat concur) that having finished a doctoral dissertation should mean I have fulfilled my lifetime quota on forcing myself to do things I don't want to do, and should therefore be forever exempt from bravely pushing forward. Usually, she wears herself out and swoons, exhausted, over the red satin fainting couch I keep just for this purpose. (Okay, I don't really have a fainting couch, but I've always wanted one).
Once the storm has passed and Drama Queen is sniffling morosely into a lace hankie, I can get on with it. And so I have.
The completion of this rather tardy pair of socks means that I have only one remaining work in progress before I can start something new. That's right, the Scotland Sweater. The sticking point - this time anyway, since there have been countless sticking points with this sweater - is that I have to rip back about 15 rows, and I resent that. I HUGELY resent that. Cue the tempestuous music, and let the wailing and rending of garments begin.
The one reason I haven't sacrificed this sweater in a ritual execution is that I truly believe it will be glorious when it is done. I know it will fit. I know I will wear it often. Hope springs eternal that I will ultimately finish it, after mumble mumble years of struggle. But who's counting?





