I was in my local yarn store this afternoon and realized how rarely I go there. It’s the quintessential yarn store: bins and bins of fluff, not enough room, and a table with folks knitting around it. I ran into an old friend of my sister Buffy whom I hadn’t seen in ten years, and she said, “Gee, I can’t believe I haven’t seen you here. I’m in here ALL the time.” I looked at her with the flat envy of a four year old eyeing his friend’s milkshake.
Of course, she is free as a lark: no job, no kids, no hubbo. She walks to the store from her condo. I can only imagine such a life.
I told her that two small children will suck the loaf-in-the-yarn-store out of anybody, and that I knitted only in the crevices of time that motherhood allows: the hookup line, the soccer practice, the piano lesson, the 11 p.m. slot after Hubbo has conked out. Oh yeah, and that very rare moment when I allow modern popular culture to infect my darlings. Knitting to “Bob the Builder” is a delirious experience but an easy hour of knitting, so I’ll take it.
My friend said I should come and knit with her. I told her it was hard because of my schedule, but maybe I would try. If nothing else, I could try to persuade her to go smaller on her needles–she was working on a giant coat from The Bigger Picture. And she might persuade me to go bigger. But you know, that eight-pound rug has turned into a wrestling match with an alligator, and I’m not winning.
All of which is to say, maybe when I’m even older and crabbier than I already am, I’ll go sit at the LYS. At the moment, I sit here and blab on with you guys, and I can do that at two in the morning in my PJs. Wait–there was one lady there today who was wearing suspiciously bedroom slipperish footwear.
A knitting note: my Beth buttonhole bands are pure defeating me. My Splash buttonhole bands are a big fluffy piece of cake. Pix to come once I can stand to look at them.