It’s a lovely color.
It’s a lovely texture.
It’s a lot of ribbing. A whole lot of ribbing.
I think I could purl-three-knit-five in my sleep at this point. You can’t completely zone out on this because failing to line up those diagonal ribs would mess the whole thing up. Being even one stitch off would throw the whole pattern off. This makes our project a bit of an dilemma–too boring to entertain, too complicated to ignore.
Remember that first episode where I said what a good balance that was? That’s the thing about balance–it unbalances. An inch ago, I loved it. Today, well, let’s just say the honeymoon is over. Sure, I’ll press on because the color really is stunning and it’s going to be a great piece once it’s finished. And you know what they say: nothing worthwhile is easy.
The knitting has left me, however, with a good deal of time to ponder while I purl. I have come to an unsettling conclusion about myself during this project. An unrelated realization, if you will–something that has little to do with knitting. Or more precisely, perhaps it is exactly this truth from which knitting saves me. Confused yet?
Here it is: I am a nerd.
An artistic nerd, perhaps, but by every shade of the definition I used in college, I am a nerd. Last weekend I held a fluent and extensive conversation with a “socially challenged” man in a comic book store. About Doctor Who and Star Trek. I debated the merits of River Song’s sonic screwdrivers vs. The Doctor’s (10 and 11, mind you!). I took a ridiculous amount of delight in being part of the Doctor Who blog hop earlier this month.
My favorite Christmas gift? A wind-up Tardis. Favorite gift given? An Enterprise pizza cutter for my husband (hey, at least I married right). I own multiple translations of Beowulf. Harry Potter? Read ’em all…in hardcover. We go to the Renaissance Festival every summer. I watch Big Bang Theory and a frightening amount of BBC television. I’m never four feet from my Blackberry and I hyperventilate if removed from my laptop for too long. When not in my blessed contacts, my glasses are thick enough to qualify for Coke bottle bottoms. I haven’t picked up a copy of People Magazine or Vogue in six months if not more.
Face it: I’ve just described a nerd. I’ve just described me.
And yet, I knit. And somehow, in some twisted corner of my artistic brain, that makes it all okay.