A few years back on a whim I partook in a knitting party at a coffee shop. I knew there was bound to be a few “hiccups” throughout the process, but things would eventually come together and I would have a lovely new headband finished at the end of the ordeal. After a few weeks of concentration and frustration, I had created something that hadn’t only grown exponentially in length (as was intended) but in width as well. Looking something like this:
So my headband sucked and I swore I would give up knitting. Just recently, however, I arrived back in Iceland, and for some reason put an end to my resolve to avoid knitting. The other day I even began thinking and imagining myself sitting, knitting peacefully, and creating glorious works of woolly art. I went as far as to imagine the sweater I would one-day knit for myself.As can be imagined, the above image never transpired. My experience was more one of horror than relaxation. There was yarn everywhere, lumps of knots far and wide, and the feeling of inner distress. If I could make the experience into an over-dramatic/ melodramatic movie, I would know the exact premise of the film.
So if there are any Icelanders out there with tons of patience and a few bottles of wine, I might one day be willing to give it another shot. Until that day, I will remain jealous of everyone’s knitting talents, and maintain that knitting is too dangerous for me to carry on (especially without constant supervision). Both the process and the horrendous product that results from the combination of me and knitting needles is more than one can handle.
Thank you for YOUR understanding.