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A couple of years ago (sweet merciful French fries, years? Yes. Huh.) I made my Mumini a sweater.  It was in one of my (then) favourite yarns, Cleckheaton’s Merino Supreme, in olive green — and there is a whole rant up my well-cabled sleeve about that particular yarn, the heartbreaker; that callous, cruel, deceptive…focus, focus.  Having never seen her wear it, I approached the subject delicately: “Mumini,” I said, “would you like me to turn that olive green sweater I made you into something else?” and she said “Yes, please.” I’m grateful for the chance to put that yarn to better use, and it was good to have a close look at my work and figure out why the end product hadn’t seen the light of day — was my knitting terrible? Had I produced a disaster more burden than gift?  Luckily, close inspection/interrogation has since revealed that I made it well (hurrah) but fitted it badly (hooroop). Peep opportunity:

So innocent; it doesn't know the ball winder awaits.

I think it’s important to learn how to tell when your gifts are less awesome than you think they are: the amount of work you put into a knitted something for someone can distort your perception of how good a gift it is. Pragmatist that some part of my brain is, I’m deeply grateful that I’ve got the kind of relationship with Mumini that I can say “yo, that sweater: fly or die?” and she can be like “lol, no. Try again.” We tight.  For me, one of the big warning signs is (or should be, if I wasn’t too dumb to shut my ears to it) when I’m working backwards: I see a pattern and think “daayyyum, that would be a sweet knit! I wouldn’t wear it, though…who can I knit that for?” and the next thing I know, I’m watching eagerly as a nervous family member unwraps a bobbled monstrosity with cat-toys dangling from the sleeves.  “You see? You just dance around and the cats can play with them! Isn’t it awesome? Check out the detail on the ferret!”  Suddenly, your family has a behind-the-back nickname for you, and nobody wants that. Self-criticism sounds bad, but when done properly, it is a treasured skill.

Anyway, I’ve begun the process of unravelling and restarting this sweater. But you remember how I said I made it well? One of the things I did really, really well was weave in the ends.  I’m having a bit of trouble finding the end of the yarn I used to seam the second sleeve. I’ll be an aardvark’s butthole if I’m about to cut anything, since one of the points of this whole exercise is to harvest and reuse yarn that is otherwise wasted and I’m going to squeeze every noodly inch out of this thing.  After an hour or two of finangling and cursing, I decided to take a break and have begun unwinding another sweater, one I started after this blogsite was born: Purple Olive. Time to kick myself in the pants and say “You haven’t got enough purple Merino Supreme for a top, ya dizzy broad!” I bought a ten-ball bag of Merino Supreme in eggplant some eight years ago and have tried to turn it into a sweater/top/cardigan on four separate projects. It. Is Not. Enough. Yarn. And I am sick of trying.  I started unravelling it, with a perhaps disproportionate sense of glee.

I think there must be some sort of psychological attachment to that quantity of yarn; I feel like I have an obligation to turn it into a sweater, or a vest, anything as long as it’s a unified garment. Sheesh, obligation to yarn? No sir. It is with surprisingly deep pleasure I announce the thick woolly sock project:

Aran weight socks. Yes please. I’m still unravelling the olive sweater, with the intention of making it into a vest, possibly something scoop-necked, possibly something shawl-collared.  Unsure at present time.

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