Granted I was feeling on top of my game. Superwoman, in fact.
I’d just spent the day putting up a couple dozen jars of Kalamata and Sicilian olives that I spent two days painstakingly harvesting from our very own olive trees. Relishing Zone 8 gardening and thinking “take that suckers” to everyone suffering through gardening in the northern hinter lands (yes, that’s you…loving wink) First time ever I have actually done something productive with our olives…Fending off fantasies of growing olives for a living. You know, in case life as a knitwear designer didn’t pan out. Always best to have a Plan B.
And I’d only recently picked and scrubbed bazillions of bright orange carrots recovered from the last of the summer’s garden, washed and lovingly tucked into the fridge.
The kid was fed.
The house was mostly cleaned, if you ignored the (homegrown) garlic peels all over the floor…worse things than your child using one hundred heads of garlic for building blocks…
Admittedly, there may have been a glass (and a half) of (local, organic) pinot noir fueling my confidence as I neared the toe of my sock–a holiday gift, of course. My spirit buzzed knowing Reed would be off to bed soon (no nap today), and surely, barring unforeseen circumstances, my sock would be finished by night’s end.
Life was good. Real good. Amazing good.
Then this happened.
That, my dear knitters, is what happens when sliding too tight stitches as you inevitably reposition your size 2 magic loop sock knitting needles.
You could cry, but instead you laugh. Because this is how things always go in your life. The worst luck. Nothing ever easy. You’ve made peace with the fact that you must have been a schmuck in your last life and ended up with crappy karma.
Or something like that.
Onward. Transferring to double pointed and hoping for the best.
And maybe just one more glass of wine. To ease the pain.