I have a disease. Don’t worry – it’s not terminal, just chronic, and one I’m sure most knitters can identify with. It’s startitis. Does The Knitting Doctor know of a cure? Actually, I feel a little justified on this one. For some reason, all of my projects are either at the miles and miles of boring stockinette (Izzy’s Christmas sweater, sock, Green Gables) or at a point that requires great concentration (Peacock Feathers, FLAK, St. Brigid, Kongsberg). I needed something that was interesting, but that was also repetitive. Years ago I made an afghan for my sister. I love that afghan and every time I go to her house and cuddle up under it I contemplate stealing it. That would be wrong, so I started my own. This is the center panel:
This pattern has about a bazillion bobbles, but after nupps, they’re a piece of cake. And don’t you think it makes a cozy decor, reclining on my bedroom chair, just waiting for the stolen minute or two to pick it up?
Partially in penance, I am committed to finishing a project in the next two weeks. Our annual knitting picnic is coming up – it’s a gathering together of groups from adjoining islands. You would have to look long and hard to find a more talented group of knitters. Bringing a few pathetic socks for show and tell just won’t cut it! Everything impressive that I’ve done this year has been given away, so I have determined to finish Peacock Feathers in time. I think it’s doable – if I do 4 rows a day, that still gives me a few days to block. Here she is – although it’s hard to determine I’ve made progress since the last photo. But I can’t get her more spread out without risking the stitches jumping off the needle, and I’m NOT taking that chance:
Today’s mission, when not knitting, is to try and find some shorts to wear for Orlando. Normally, I do not do shorts. The only pair I have are the ratty ones I wear when exercising on my bike. I’m terribly self-concious about my legs – they’re skinny and white. I know the skinny part is probably the envy of some, but I was teased about it when I was younger. And I’m coming to terms with the white part. Being embarassed by my skin color makes about as much sense as telling an African-American they should be embarassed by theirs. This is the color God made me and I won’t risk skin cancer to change it. But I still don’t like wearing shorts!