Last night I was jolted awake by this terrifying thought:
Maybe I flunked out of my first ever knitting class [see Knitting School Dropout]
…because…I WAS SITTING IN THE WRONG CLASS?
Not as in, I was in a class well beyond my skill level, which would be the case no matter the class, but that I’d wandered into the wrong classroom altogether?
That would explain so much!
It’s taken me three months for this to occur to me. That’s how bad of a knitter I am.
This new theory struck me because I’ve been watching instructional knitting videos on YouTube while on my stationary bike, pedaling to what feels like the top of Pike’s Peak but in reality wouldn’t get me to the nearest pakalolo store (they outnumber espresso bars here in the Emerald City).
Raspberry stitch, popcorn stitch, lattice stitch, S&M stitch (which is what I have in my side after 10 minutes of biking), you name it, I watch it: anything to get me through half an hour of a resistance level that in real life would basically be coasting downhill.
Once I select a YouTube video and watch it through to completion—which I always do, because no way I’m heaving myself up onto that bike again if I climb down off of it to find a different video—the next video is automatically selected and pops up, based on a mysterious algorithm that dictates what I might like next because, say, I just watched How to Do a W&T. (You’d think I was line dancing, not sitting on my okole.) After I learned how, I typed into the Search box: Why in hell would I ever want to do a W&T? They tend to leave details like that out of the instruction. Make mine a G&T, thanks much.
In this way, I’ve gotten to see an awful lot of newsie profiles about Princess Kate and Prince William, especially after I’ve watched videos of author interviews…particularly those of humorists and memoirists. Why are royals and raconteurs considered to be of equal interest to an ectomorph who by now feels like she should have lost approximately a thousand pounds?
I think the answer is that humorists and memoirists have no lives (see: daily bicycling to nowhere) and must get our rocks off by watching updates about a woman whose primary achievement is looking smashing in polka dots (perhaps because her body is not made up of a single round thing) and a man whose growing bald spot NOBODY MENTIONS. But, hey, at least now I know why Kate and William never hold hands in public (I was dying to know; aren’t you?).
Last night I’d watched a half dozen short videos on How to Knit a Buttonhole, when up popped a video on how to knit with two strands of different-colored yarns.
I thought about diving off the bike and onto the computer mouse to stop this traumatic reminder of my failure in the Two-Color Stranded Knitting 101 class, but I only had a few minutes on the bike to go, so thought I could tough it out. At least this was good for further increasing my heartrate.
So I watched and waited for the dreaded five simultaneously used double-pointed needles to appear (the first hour of class), or for the Gorgon’s head of the feared Magic Loop (the second hour of class) to raise its ugly head and turn me to stone, alas, no thinner than I’d been 23 minutes earlier.
But nothing of the kind happened. The video instructor used two straight needles and advised about holding colored strands over this finger or that, and she demonstrated a couple of different methods.
This is so in my lane, I thought. I could do that. Not well, but passably. I could have done that three months ago, too.
What the hell? By the time I’d dropped out of the color knitting class two-thirds of the way through the three hours, nary a different colored strand of yarn had appeared.
You’d think the thought that I might have been in the wrong class would have occurred to me right then, but it did not until the middle of the night three months later when my plump kitty was again suffocating me and I gasped awake.
I’m not sure if I would feel better confirming after all this time that I’d attended the wrong class, or knowing that I indeed was a knitting flunkie—the latter of which turned out to be true. I dug up the class handout. I had indeed dropped out of a Knitting 101 class.
The instructor must have busted out the Technicolor during the third hour of class, when I’d already left and was home with a stiff drink, and the only color I was feeling was blue.
But you can’t keep an obsessed knitter down. It won’t be long before she turns over a new leaf.
*Yes, this is vodka pictured, not gin, but apparently someone (whose initials are jdm) drank the last of the gin. Also the tonic.