I can count on two needles the number of days I haven't knit a stitch in the two-something years I've been a knitter. For me, it's a rough-and-tumble contact sport that tackles me, outwits me and leaves me crying softly in a heap on the floor for my dearly beloved to walk pityingly past at the ungodly morning hour when he is waking up and taking off and I haven't yet dragged myself and the remains of my dignity to bed.
I knit for better or for worse, in sickness and in health; and if heaven is as it should be, I will knit into eternity, the endless magic loop. Natch, an argument could be made, given my frequent, outrageous and generally unforgivable knitting sins, that I'll end up heading south instead of north; but it wouldn't be much of a stretch to imagine that any personalized hell would likely doom me to knit forever with a bitch of a yarn that I despise, like chenille, or pair me with an infernally tangled yarn that I love, like handpainted suri alpaca or Malabrigo or Noro Kureyon, or leave me stranded in the afterlife with a pattern written in cyrillic or some language I can't decipher. Knit one, curse two.
And so, even though I am sick and tired, and my daughter has pneumonia and my chest is wheezy, and it is late and I worked all week till the wee
hours, still I must pick up the mosaic baby hat for Bret's newborn, that I know already will fit a doll better than the baby, and I must make some stitch-by-stitch progress. Because that is how I measure my days, that is my value added, my herculean Susan Boyle effort.
