turning tides

I almost broke up with knitting. I think I had some sort of midway relationship crisis with it, I wanted something sexier, new and fresh - knitting was, well, boring. I wanted to make a quilt. I wanted to paint a picture. Anything but the knitting.

So, I had a fling. An illicit affairette. I did this. Oh and it was so wonderful, so liberating. There was no wrist pain, I could still count away to my borderline ocd's little heart's content, and the size! Tiny, finished in a matter of days. No commitment, no ties, just almost instant gratification and then it's over.

But today I heard a yarn in the naughty cupboard talking to the others. "Impudent tart", she said "She just does whatever she pleases, I mean cross stitch for heaven's sake! All the while I wait here trying to look my best, trying not to age or anything, just so that when the door opens she might deign it upon herself to use me next. Well I'm sick of it. I'm going to revolt against her, whose with me?"

I opened the cupboard. "Who was that?" I asked the yarns. Predictably, there was no reply. But I saw one little ball in there trembling, a little navy ball - one previously overlooked for the brighter more vibrant colours next to her. I picked her up. She was soft, squishy. On closer inspection I deemed her shade to be classic, masculine, timeless.

I cast on for a little swatch. Just a little one, mind you. For old times' sake. And what marvel started slowly growing from the bottom of the needle! Stitch definition like never seen before, smooth silky softness, perfect twist in the yarn. Cashmerino.

So I started begging the knitting to take me back. I hope it can forgive me, I was weak, it didn't mean a thing to me. It doesn't mean I didn't love it, does it?