A good ribbing...
I’ve decided we don’t give nearly enough credit to the rib.
Actually, I’ve worn enough socks to remind me I don’t respect ribbing enough. You know the kind of rib-less, mass-produced sock I’m talking about--usually from a department or discount store. They’re deceptive, making you think thin and synthetic is sleek and chic. They lure you in with their perky, clever patterns...
...until you go to take them off at the end of the long day. There, facing you below your knees, is a clear, disturbing dent in your calves from where they were too tight on top. You begin to wonder what kind of cellular damage has been wrought throughout your day, wonder if these strangulating socks were indeed the reason for your never-ending fatigue and general crankiness. After all, nothing as cozy as socks should ever leave a mark.
It is then that I run to a pair of hand-knit socks, sure to hug my tender cankles in soft, forgiving ribbing. No marks, no scars. Unless, of course, these were toe-up socks and I botched the bind off (okay, it’s been known to happen).
I hold these hand-crafted socks from Purl Soho and know, just by how the first inches feel, that they will be comfortable, warm, and a delight to wear. It’s in the give of the wool, the rhythm of the rib, the artistry of a good pair of hand knit socks.
These will be like that, I can just tell. You can probably hear my sigh all the way to New York.
Chime in with your comment to win this “P” totebag from Purl Soho. I’ll even throw in an Allie Pleiter book of your choice if you like, just because I think you’re spiffy, too!
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