Dear Whippoorwill,

It’s not you. It’s me.  I need a little break.  Its not a break-up, just a break.  I promise. Right now we just aren’t seeing eye to eyelet. You, you think increasing a couple of stitches here, a handful there, this is no big deal.  It’s just a slow, gradual building of your beautiful curved lines. And you’re not wrong. You are lovely. It’s definitely not you.

The thing of it is, I, as a knitter, am impatient. I don’t cope well with slow-progressing projects.  Frankly my mistake was in choosing to knit you in the largest size your pattern is written for. I should have read ahead, done the math, realized that more than 550 stitches by the final rows would not be a wise choice for me. But I didn’t. You stunned me with your beauty. The yarn I chose for you only added to my pie-eyed wonder at you.  I was convinced I could overcome my own faults as a knitter because I love you so much.

I was wrong. I realized over the weekend that I was quickly beginning to resent you. I confess, I even dreamed for the briefest of moments of destroying you. But I know this is not what I really want.  I know that I can love you again. Wrapping your soft, drapy wings around me, it will be perfection. I will wonder why I ever doubted you.  The color transitions, the neutral palate, all of it, absolute perfection. You deserve this. You do not deserve visions of being killed with fire and me dancing on your ashes.  Never mind that you’re wool, won’t actually burn to ashes, this is the sort of logical place my brain is not capable of going to just yet, I am too far in to see the forest for the trees.  So I’m going to walk away for a little while.

Don’t think of me as cheating on you with *gasp* a SWEATER, of all things, think of me as taking a little yarn holiday.  Dashing off to a land of soft blue sport weight to regain my perspective.  In a few days, I’ll return from this break and I’ll resume the pleasure that is passing your Madtosh laceweight held double through my fingers as I count down those last 20 rows.  I will bind you off, block you with tender, loving hands that only a knitter who’s fought the good fight and won can bring.  And I will wrap myself in your glory and wear you with pride knowing our relationship has survived.

You will be finished. I just beg your patience while I regain my center where you are concerned.

Ever yours,

The frustrated knitter.


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