Is it possible for knitting to become a form of self-flagellation? A couple days ago, I realized that I would probably make my Christmas deadlines. I started wearing a poncho of unflappable serenity, calm in the knowledge that I'd be able to gorge out on cookies and eggnog without gift guilt, comfortably smug and satisfied by my foresight and timing.
So what did I do? I started another project, of course, and started the cycle of what-was-I-thinking, how-am-I-going-to-get-this-done panic all over again. Without climbing too deep into my belly button, wtf? Is there a name for this kind of pathology - lack of willpower as a tool to further self-hatred?
Or maybe, the project is just very pretty and I think knitting it is a lot of fun.
Austrian-Patterned Knee Socks from the Knitter's Magazine book Socks, Socks Socks. They are the socks of my dreams - all my thoughts of kilt hose, of fireside-knit woolens, of silk stockings presented to the Queen, begin and end with these, covered in patterns made of intricate twisted-stitch lines that cross and recross and swoop about to form the knitted equivalent of filigree.
They are the alpha and the omega of handknit socks.
I'm going to do them thigh-high, with an eyelet row inside the knitted hem for threading an elastic band. Unfortunately, the yarn I started with - my all-purpose Baby Ull - couldn't be more unsuited to the single cable crosses and very fine (9 st/inch on US0s) gauge: first, it's superwash-slippery, merrily falling out of pinched-for-cabling stitches; second, it's rather loosely twisted, prone to splitting and not conducive to showing off the stitches. What I need is a tightly spun, firm fingering-weight wool.
In case you can't tell, I'm twisting my own arm over here.