I’m not sure if my awful (read: hilarious) puns gave it away, but this post is about knitting. Specifically, it is about my stupid idea today to pick up some needles, cast on and attempt to knit a hat.
I know, it’s not really a stupid idea, in fact, some of the most awesome people I know knit… but I can already tell it’s going to end in tears for moi.
You see, I have dabbled in knitting in the past but the novelty would always wear off about half way through a project (read: after about 6 months…) and I would give to my mum to finish. Ah yes, my mum. She is what I like to refer to as my ‘knitting crutch’. Got a problem? Mum will fix it. F*cked it up? Mum will fix it. Something too hard? Mum will do it for me. Got bored and gave up, therefore wasting $ on wool that would go unused wool? Mum will finish it.
Now, that was all well and good (for me anyway) when I lived 12 minutes drive from mum and dad. Now? Now I am living 650km away and even the prettiest wool isn’t worth the 12 hour drive (or even the one hour flight + one hour trip out of town to the airport) to get any knitting related problem.
But you know what? I’m meant to be a big girl, and part of being a big girl is learning to knit without my knitting crutch. What I have realised is that there is this thing called YouTube (have you heard of it?) and there are these things on the Tube of You, called tutorials… and said tutorials can surely teach me how to master a new stitch or un-f*ck a f*ck up?
I now sit with my purple sz4 knitting needles to my left, 74 stitches cast on and 3 rows of ribbing complete. A hat. I am working on a hat. Something I’ve never knitted before, but have crocheted numerous times, so many I could probably do it in my sleep. By posting about it on my blog I now feel as though I have to see it through, have to finish. Maybe I’ll send it to my mum as a thanks-for-putting-up-with-my-knitting-related-crap-for-so-long type affair.
See! Purple needles, 74 stitches, 3 completed rows of ribbing. … now I pat myself on the back.
Maybe I’ll unpick it, throw the barf-esque looking jumble of wool at the wall, then go to my room and sulk. And ring my mum. And ask her to fly up to fix it for me. Pretty please.