I wasn’t even looking for you-I was completely happy with all the projects I had on my needles. But then there you were, just waiting for me in the pages of the new knitting book.

And isn’t that always the way of things, that when you stop looking, a new love finds you?

I was sucked in by your easy instructions-just a simple garter stitch for 72 rows. I could knit you and watch TV, or listen to the radio, and not even have to think at all.

I was seduced by the fuzzy softness of the mohair, and the deep, rich purple tones of the yarn.

We had one, glorious month together, and then it all went down in flames.

After all that time together, after all our hopes and dreams, after all those stitches, how could you betray me like that?

The itching, dude, the itching WILL NOT STOP!

How could you just stand by and let me work on you for an entire month with no problem at all, only to turn on me at the moment of completion and cause me to break out in a painful, itchy rash? (How can every single part of my body except my hands be allergic to mohair?!)

I’m sorry to have to say this, but I just don’t think we should see each other anymore. I really think it’s for the best.

Wondering where it all went wrong,

Jenny

(A friend of mine who has been dealing with her own chronic health challenge over the past 5 years summed up this situation quite well when she was commiserating with me and was all, “Oh man, I know. It’s like, ‘give me a purpose or gimme a gun!’ “)

Right now I am working on a simple pattern that basically consists of the following three steps:

1. Cast on 108 stitches

2. Knit every stitch for 72 rows.

3. Bind off all stitches.

As far as difficulty level goes, this is pretty much the knitting equivalent of “falling off a log”.

But knitting patterns are not always so easy, or so enjoyable, and this is due to the unfortunate fact (about which I was grievously uninformed ahead of time) that knitting involves copious amounts of math. And math? Is pretty much my mortal enemy.

Now for some people (and here I’m specifically thinking of my mother), this is not a problem.

A while ago my mom inherited some yarn from a knitter who was moving overseas, and when said knitter then became pregnant, my mom decided to use that yarn to make her a baby blanket. The only problem was that her pattern called for 1,000 yards of yarn, but her skein only consisted of 600 yards.

“That’s no problem,” she thought. “It’s just a baby blanket, so I’ll just make it half as big.” (She thinks these kinds of thoughts because she majored in math. We liberal arts majors know better.)

Such was her dedication to this project, and her belief in the power of numbers, that she then performed an extensive series of mathematical computations including (but not limited to) the formula for finding the area of a rectangle, square roots (SQUARE ROOTS!!), rewriting an entirely new chart of the pattern, and something involving multiples of 7. She then took the revised pattern into work to consult with her other knitting friends, and they all agreed that this project was a go, because-AND I QUOTE-”The math was certainly there.”

And of course, that is the exact moment that, despite her meticulous calculations, despite all her years as a math educator, and despite her devotion to the pursuit of higher mathematics as evidenced by the attainment of her Master’s Degree, math laughed manically, spit in her face, and then flipped her the bird.

Can you see where I’m going with this? That’s right. After all that, it didn’t work.

I don’t remember what happened after that, because all I could think about was the fact that her story did not end with the words, “and then I set myself on fire,” which is exactly what I would’ve done when, drawing deeply on my skills as a liberal arts student, I interpreted the inconsistency of math as an existential comment on the ultimate meaninglessness of life itself. As would you.

But she was surprised that it didn’t work. I think it’s because she is still laboring heavily under the delusion that math is true whereas I, who was smart enough to major in languages, know that math is, in fact, just a giant illusion, designed specifically for our torture.

Because, oh yes, math has played its sick jokes on me too, most recently when I decided to learn how to knit socks.

I played it fast and loose with with the math on my first attempt, which left me with one sock wide enough to fit both of my feet at the same time. While this was quite efficient, it was also extremely impractical, and so I decided to buckle down and measure for gauge on my next attempt at creating knitted footwear.

I had reached the point in the process where you are knitting the piece between the end of the heel and the beginning of the toe, and I wanted to know how many more rounds I had left to knit, in order to increase from 3.5″ to 7.5″.

I dutifully measured my work after knitting 6 rounds, and found that I had increased from 3.5″ to 4″. “Great,” I thought, “Apparently 6 rounds=1/2 of an inch.” I thought I was set.

Here are my results.

1. After knitting 6 more rounds I was at 4.5″.

2. After knitting 12 more rounds, I was at 6″.

3. After knitting an additional 6 rounds, I was at 7.5″.

At which point I decided, “Screw it! I’m just gonna do this however I want!” Which is exactly why I majored in words.

Because, when it all comes down, my training as a language major has given me the only two skills I truly need in order to succeed at knitting:

The ability to interpret things freely and fluidly, and the ability to curse in many different languages.

The other day as I was perusing the message boards I came upon a thread asking the intriguing question, “Has anyone knit the Clapotis?”

Naturally every time I saw this, the only thing I could think was, “That sounds like an extremely painful STD.”

Which was fine to think, but then an important gateway guarding the flow of action between my brain and my fingers broke down, and I actually wrote that on the message board.

(Important Side Note: For which I totally blame the Prednisone. Or actually, the fact that I’m slowly getting off of it. And my system is punishing me for taking away its PRE-SSSHHHUUUSSS!!, because without it I am Cranky McBitchyPants, but as soon as I take my ever-decreasing dose I am In Love With The Entire World. Well, except for the part that projectile-vomits all over the hallway and then wants to sit in my lap. That part’s a little hard to take no matter what I’m on.)

And let me tell you something. Apparently, The Clapotis? Is no laughing matter. Because except for explaining exactly what a Clapotis is (”a wide scarf/small shawl knitted on the bias with columns of dropped stitches that make waves on the purl side of the fabric”, in case you were wondering), no one has written anything else on this thread. And not only that-I’ve managed to shut down communication on the entire board.

Apparently I need to be a little more careful the next time I Use My Powers.

“So I was sitting in the living room knitting, and my 18-year old son walked in. He stopped, saw what I was doing, and then asked, ‘Mom, are you practicing being old?’