Crawling to the Finish Line

Someday (may be the last thing I ever do), I'm going to finish a project before the final possible second.  The Red Faery is not that project.  It's Friday, and I'm headed to the island for a desperately needed vacation with my family.  There's a birthday party for my mom on Sunday, and I'm going to be knitting in the car, on the ferry, and probably in the dark of night, too, in order to give her a present that actually is finished.  The irony is, of course, that I'm killing myself to finish this sweater in time for her birthday IN AUGUST, when it's much too hot for her to wear it.  But that's not what this is about, for me. 

A while back I "turned pro" as a knitter.  That is to say, I started writing about the knitting I do, and the people I know who also do it.  I made a book about it, and people started to call me things like "Designer" and "Author".  My professional status was more a result of not stopping them from doing that than it was actually having achieved some benchmark.  In lots of avocations, there are certificates, or even licenses you can earn, stick in frames, and hang on your wall.  Knitting doesn't have that kind of tangible proof, outside the actual sweaters and socks.  I'm totally okay with that, not being the sort of person who's much impressed by framed certifications.  I just roll with it, and hope that nobody asks me a question I can't find an answer to.  So far my strategy is working.  I can tell this, because I have noticed that I will probably never be able to just knit something for the heck of it again.  My knitting time has become totally devoted to people outside my immediate circle of friends and family.  I knit for yarnmakers.  I knit for book publishers.  I knit for other knitters whom I may never even meet.  And it is wonderful.  What better validation and affirmation could I ask for?  There are just these little times when I wish I could make my mom a birthday sweater without an unusual planetary alignment, or an act of Congress.  I'd like it if I could make that little doll sweater for Lindsay before she outgrows dolls.  Campbell should have two mittens, not one.  And don't even ask me what the last thing I made for Phillip was.  Can't remember.

So getting this project done for my mom is not just a triumph of will over day job.  It's proof to me that I can still make room in my priority queue for the people I love.  And that's why a box of disembodied sweater parts for mom's birthday simply would not do.  Here are the sleeves, by the way:

You may notice that they are neither seamed, nor attached to the sweater.  Still.  I'm gonna make it to the finish line.  There's like hours to go before the party.
 

Nice Pair

What sadistic jerk ever decided that in knitting, we have to do so many things twice?  Two feet = two socks.  Two hands = two mittens.  Two arms = two sleeves.  I swear, someday I'm going to knit an evening gown, just so I can get away with only making one shoulder.  It's a personal problem: I have the attention span of a soap bubble.  Doing something once is such a huge achievement for me that nothing short of a mandatory waiting period restores my attraction to the project.  Only after a suitable rest can I come back and finish the second sock/pant leg/earflap.  I think that attempting a pair of knitted gloves with ten whole fingers might actually kill me.

Knowing about this weakness of mine, I have learned to fake myself out.  Usually when I make a sweater, I knit a sleeve first, then the body, before starting all over on another sleeve.  The Red Faery, for some reason, did not inspire that sort of forethought.  Here I am at the bitter end, with two days left until we leave for my mom's birthday, and neither sleeve is finished.  What made me put down one halfway through and start another completely escapes me, if I even noticed it in the first place.  Attention span.  Sleeve Gremlins.  Saw something shiny. 

I'm trying to take it easy on myself.  Everybody else I know who attended Sock Summit is still in a puddle on the floor, contemplating recovery.  I would be too, but my kids have this hangup about wanting food and shelter, so I showed up for work instead.  Still, I wouldn't mind some toothpicks to prop my eyelids open with.  Sock needles are too long - I already tried.  The @#$%^ing sleeves aren't going to knit themselves in time for my mom's birthday, even though I asked them politely to. Crying and swearing also had no effect.  The sleeves just lay there, unfinished; Mocking me with their lack of caps or underarm shaping. 

And it's not that Mom wouldn't understand getting a box of disjointed sweater parts for her birthday.  I'm pretty sure she pioneered the practice of giving unfinished gifts when her five children were young.  But I only have two children (three, if you count Phillip), and it feels like wimping out for me to admit defeat before the 11th hour. 

So I need to just grow a pair.  Of Sleeves.  

If ya think I'm soxy

I used to live a sheltered life.  I used to think I knew what I like to knit, what I don't, what I'm interested in trying next and what I really can't be bothered with.  My knitting existence was predictable, sane (by my standards; an admittedly dicey frame of reference) and comfortable.

Modern sockmaking accouterments de rigeur: Go Knit pouch (sock people walk while knitting), Signature DPNs (size 2, 6" length) and Socks That Rock Lightweight in Tanzanite (Pattern I made up and am unlikely to remember for the 2nd sock)  All the cool kids have these things, and they really make it fun.

I really should have known better, but there it is.  See, my true confession is this:  I've just never been all that into socks. 

I find them fiddly: all those teensy DPNs are tough for me to manage, and two circulars are even worse. 

I think they are tricksy: Everyone has their favorite way to turn a heel and no two are alike - how can a person trust it will ever work? 

I find them redundant: The big payoff when you finally finish a sock is that you get to start all over again from the beginning, or else never get to wear them. Something about that just breaks my heart.

Or so I thought.

I went to the Sock Summit, conveniently thrown in my home town, to see my knitting friends (sock maniacs, all), take a few meetings, and do a little shopping.  I even got to attend some classes.  

Somewhere in between those activities, the fumes must have gotten to me.  In class,  I learned a whole lot about all things socky.  In the marketplace, I was seduced by beautiful tools and yarn.  My friends waxed poetic about tops toes and everything in between.  But best of all, everyplace I went, and everybody I met felt like home.  The Mother Ship had definitely landed, and it was such a relief to stop my frantic paddling and roll with the tide.  What complete luxury to drop all pretense of normalcy and blend in with the other teeming throngs of string-loving weirdos. 

I bought sock blockers with Scottish Terrier cutouts.  I spent big money on DPNs I've been coveting for a year.  I grabbed a skein of STR lightweight in my all time favorite purple and let the waves of socktitude wash away the last of my feeble reservations.  I put down the (now extremely weighty and totally unportable) Red Faery and cast on 60 wee sock stitches.  No pattern, no plan, no deadline.  Just me and the sticks and the string, singing whatever song would come.  Thank you, my knitting bretheren (and sister-en) for a delightful rest in your embrace.

I feel Stronger.  Faster.  Soxier.