Just Barely Alive

OK, so I'm being dramatic, but that's a mangled quote from one of my favourite authors ever. Here's a hint, the complete line is "When I was five I was barely alive". Personally, I'm hoping to get to six sometime soon, as that seems quite idyllic.

My other favourite author originating from the same time of my life and enduring equally faithfully is Lewis Carroll.

Monday all I could tolerate was lying face-down; every other modality hurt. Being vertical long enough to drink a cup of coffee (I like it piping hot, but I may have a layer of asbestos in my mouth, which might be a clue to approximately how much time I'm talking about) made my back spasm such that any bendiness at the hips was excruciating. I had to waddle/shuffle as though I had an extra 30-40 years and some ungodly number of extra pounds. Not pretty, especially with the tight-lipped grimaces at which I have become so adept. Most likely not my best look.

Eventually, I got the goods, by which I mean more and heavier drugs and now I can locomote without [much] pain, sit in a chair for long enough to eat a leisurely meal, and lie on my back while I knit to This American Life. The steroids (no, not that kind, there are absolutely no competitive endeavours which would incite me to that) give me insomnia while the muscle relaxants make me drowsy enough to nap during the day, which I guess does ensure a modicum of rest.

Today I made a couple of batts on my baby. I love this toy almost better than all others. Not sure I could actually sit comfortably and long enough spin them just yet, but I'm knitting and making progress: less than an inch from the armholes on the cardigan v2.0, but now progress must be delayed, as I discovered that I was one stitch off over about 10"on the very last row of my 3x3 ribbing 7" ago. Luckily it's 3x3 rather than 2x2: 1/3 fewer stitches to ladder down and ladder up, and luckily it's all stocking stitch, so the re-laddering is faster and easier. I like to tell myself that this business of continually having to fix my blunders is probably good for whatever passes for my soul (or facsimile thereof, not having anything but skepticism for the notion of a soul, but it's a convenient and widely-understood metaphor), but the truth is, it's a bit annoying all the same.

I didn't have any backtracking whatsoever with this sweater at all

which is a strong and clear message that I should completely and totally ignore designs which are not absolutely 100% my own, or else follow other people's patterns to the letter and use the recommended yarn. I think I did that once, back in high school, except as it turned out, there was an error in the pattern, so one of the stripes was the wrong width.  And oh yeah, I chose to make a crew neck instead of a cowl, but I think I did actually use the specified yarn, Patons Kismet, now sadly discontinued lo these many decades (at least two) so it can be done by me. Sort of.

Onward anyhow though, a little chastened, albeit temporarily.

I'm in love with knitting and spinning all over again, have been since the last SOAR. Don't get me wrong, I'm jazzed after every SOAR, but since I started beading obsessively, the fiber high would subside to take a back seat to beading, but this hasn't really happened this time. Every sweater I see causes me to plan wildly and furiously, emptying various stash tubs over the floor, dividing yarns suitable for the latest brilliant idea into their own piles, seeing other groupings of yarn which suddenly and obviously require their very own dose of my obsession and so get piles too.

I go back to one of the current projects (numbering two. I'm fighting against a 50% increase) and then after a while, depending on the resilience of the special yarn piles, either put them into their own super-large ziploc with a sketch, or tumble them back into their stash bin along with the other contenders who didn't even place this round.

I love it, I really do.

So what am I to make of this: someone whom I know somewhat, but not extremely well, on being informed by me that I don't care for games, not card games, not board games, no games, immediately chuckled and said "You don't like to lose, do you?"  Of course that's true. Another truth is that I'm not only a poor loser, but a really obnoxious gloating-type winner unless I exercise extreme self-control. The biggest truth is that I don't care who takes over the world, gets closest to 21 points, uses up their letters first, or hits the stupid ball over the stupid net. I just don't see the point of it all. Still, the losing thing was somewhat insightful all the same, as I foolishly imagined I had some mystery. Well, perhaps I do, but not that mystery.