Things I Learned From Knitting (7 page)

When I noted my error, I decided for some insane reason that a glass of wine might take the edge off. This might have been true, but because I next placed the waist shaping at the front and back of the sweater instead of at the sides, it's possible that the decision to have a second glass may have affected my accuracy. The third glass made it so that I didn't care.

The next morning I fixed the shaping and proceeded to knit to the armhole. I followed the instructions carefully. Only when I'd finished the armhole opening did I remember that way back at the beginning I'd decided to reject all concern for row gauge. Now though, I had neglected to
compensate for that shortfall. In following the instructions, I had created an armhole opening so tight that I was going to have to rip it back again or accept that this sweater would make my fingers all go numb and a little blue when I wore it.

I ripped it back again (after perhaps stomping on it once with a few choice and unladylike words, for which I can hardly be blamed) and took the sweater to the backyard to knit under the trees and regain peacefulness. Events went much better out there. This almost made up for the fact that I left my knitting on the garden table overnight — where it was not only rained on, but was also unceremoniously crapped on by a bird.

As I stood there, looking at the decoration on this sweater that was … let's be frank, not working out at all, I wondered if I would be able to forgive the sweater all of this. The mistakes, the ripping, the gauge, the rain, the missing rows, the errors in the pattern (that was later): Perhaps it was too much pain to pass between a knitter and her sweater. I wondered if I would be able to let go enough to love the sweater, or maybe if I would love it more because I'd surmounted all
of the troubles and risen above the challenges. I wondered if my feelings for the sweater would be like my feelings for my children, where surviving the difficult times had only endeared them to me more.

Though knitting has taught me, generally, that all is well that ends well and that rising above adversity (mostly) strengthens the sense of accomplishment, this time it taught me something entirely unexpected. The acids in bird crap will totally destroy wool.

IT IS A SAD TRUTH
that most knitters have a very poor body image. (This is likely because most human beings have a very poor body image, and most knitters are human beings, but I'm just guessing.)

Non-knitters struggle with body image, believing themselves to be what they're not — fatter than they are, thinner than they are, taller than they are, or far more beautiful than they imagine. All of us have ended up standing stunned in a clothing store trying to understand how we could have been so wrong about the relationship between our arses and our pants. But because knitters make some of their own clothes and because how they make their clothes is so unpredictable, knitters have special issues with body image. A huge number of knitters are out there wearing knitted stuff that
doesn't come anywhere close to fitting them properly.

It should be easy. Knitters should buy or design a pattern, measure themselves, select the right size from among the choices, knit that size and there you go, it's off to the races. Right? Wrong. Enter a litany of knit-based influences that results in most of us knitters at least occasionally looking like we've never seen ourselves in a mirror.

Gauge.
Every knitter knows that while gauge can certainly be predictive and that theoretically, if we select the 38-inch-chest pattern and knit a gauge swatch and get the correct number of stitches to the inch, darn it all, the sweater should be 38 inches around. Every knitter also knows that there's a 50/50 chance that something will happen to gauge along the way and that our sweater could, for no reason other than the fact that it's a Tuesday, turn out much larger or smaller than predicted. Now, a knitter can wear a sweater that is too big, even if it isn't attractive, but because a sweater that is too small is utterly hopeless and unwearable, a knitter will often
opt for a larger size “just to be sure.” The result can be a knitter proudly wearing a sweater that swells upon her body like the mainsail of a grand schooner billowed out in a full and hearty wind.

Patience.
While knitters really want items that fit, they're also only human, and when making a thing drags on for a while, there is a natural human tendency to shorten the effort and move on to the next temptation. This results in a knitterly knack for occasionally overestimating how much of a sleeve has been knit. (Admit it: How many times have you tugged just a little bit while measuring?) Knitters also convince themselves that a sweater will lengthen in the wearing or otherwise contrive a way to believe that whatever they're knitting, they have knit it long enough. Though they are loathe to admit it, this explains the preponderance of ¾-length sleeves, cropped sweaters, and skimpy scarves. Flattering? Maybe not … but the project got done, darn it, and at the time, done was all that mattered.

Pride.
After hours and hours of knitting, it would be a rare knitter indeed who couldn't reach deep into his psyche in order to put on (or
insist that another human put on) his magnificent creation. I don't know about you, but more than once my pride in my well-executed cables have been enough to get me to put on and go out in a sweater that was otherwise horrendous.

In case you haven't been adding all of this up, the sum total of all these knitterly quirks means that the next time you see a knitter wearing an odd garment that doesn't fit (remember, that may be you in the mirror) just add it up. The sweater is too big around because you can put on a too-big sweater, but not a too-small one. It is too short because his next sweater beckoned; and no matter how it looks, that knitter is wearing it anyway, darn it, because his pride in his accomplishment and the fifty hours of invested knitting effort are simply not going to be overlooked … Fashion be damned. Knitters hold clothes to a different standard. To knitters, clothing is also art … and besides, size doesn't really matter. Right?

Knitting is still trying to teach me …

TO COUNT. I THOUGHT I HAD

MASTERED IT IN THE FIRST GRADE,

BUT SINCE I HAVE JUST PLACED

THE NECK OPENING FOR A SWEATER

DIRECTLY OVER MY RIGHT SHOULDER

BLADE, I APPARENTLY NEED TO

WORK ON IT
.

I AM A PERSON WHO LOVES PERFECTION
and control, although I suspect I would have a really hard time convincing anyone who has ever seen my housekeeping, wardrobe, or hair of that. It seems to me that most of the time, the search for perfection is at best exhausting and at worst, hopeless. Trying to gain control is even more hopeless, because it turns out that almost everyone on the planet is not under my direct influence, no matter how much easier it would be for me if they were.

Despite my abject failure to perfect and control humanity, I've discovered one aspect of my life in which it's possible to perfect and control everything: my knitting. Knitting is a relief to type-A people — those of us who like to demand certain standards in things — because it is entirely inert. Knitting has no feelings that can be
hurt if you curse it for failing you. Knitting won't cry at its desk if you tell it that it isn't performing up to your standards. You can be as absolutely picky as you want with your knitting, and no one will suffer. Yarn is almost infinitely reuseable. You can rip back and reknit something as many times as you want to, tinkering with stitches and edges, obsessively choosing decreases that match each other perfectly. Whatever need for perfection and control any of us may have can truly be met by knitting, without doing any damage to anyone's self-esteem. And that, my friends, can't be said of anything else in my life.

If I had things my way — which, we have already established, I do not — the whole world would work the way knitting does. I would be in charge, I would say what happens and when, and I would be able to quit anything that wasn't working out or had stopped being fun — without having to live with the consequences. Knitting is perfect for those of us who have these urges to control everything but have learned that spouses, coworkers, children, and friends cannot be managed in this way if we still want them to be our
spouses, coworkers, children, and friends. It would seem prudent that people with control issues learn three lessons: to let go, to lighten up, and to find an acceptable outlet for the times when those first two simply aren't possible.

I humbly suggest knitting to moderate the desire to run the world, and run it right. The satisfaction that perfect garter stitch can give you or the solid feeling of well-being that comes from being able to make all the decisions (if only on a small scale) can be a very good outlet for the intense and engaged knitter's heart.

Knitting is also a whole lot easier than divorce, finding a new job, going to family therapy, or suffering eventual loneliness, which is where I would be headed without it. Knitting's moderating effect on my personality also explains why, occasionally, when I'm a little wound up … people sometimes suggest I go knit for a while.

I STARED AT THE TV. I WAS STUNNED
. There's this rancher in Cuba, Raul Hernandez, who's worked his arse off inbreeding cows until he has finally arrived at what he wants. After carefully selecting cows that have the qualities he desires, then breeding them and selecting the most promising of their offspring, and then breeding the offspring, he's finally managed to produce — get this —
vacas de patio.
Translated from the Spanish, that's “patio cows.”