I'm a recovering perfectionist. My recovery includes allowing myself to try new things without having to be an immediate whiz kid, so, on a whim, I took an introductory knitting class. Go me! I'm not sure why I chose knitting, other than it is a hobby less solitary than sewing, and I can hang out with Poseidon and watch a movie while knitting. I can't quite do that with the sewing machine.
Anyway, I enjoyed the knitting classes (2 classes total...an accelerated introduction, to say the least). We learned the knit stitch, the purl stitch, casting on, and binding off, so our instructor told us to consider ourselves "advanced beginners." We also learned how to read a knitting pattern, how to buy yarn, types of needles, resources for help, etc. My brain is sufficiently stuffed with knitting knowledge.
I've just completed my first project: A cotton washcloth. Well, I'm very nearly finished. Tonight I will bind off, and stare open-mouthed at my accomplishment with a celebratory beer. I'm so pleased with my progress (and that is what counts...as the well-grounded know, outside validation isn't going to fill in any emotional holes).
My washcloth isn't pretty. It's full of dropped stitches, me forgetting if I'm knitting or purling, and goofs too silly to fake, but I did it without breaking out in hives, punching myself in the face, or taking out Poseidon's left eye (or his right eye), and yesterday, I had the audacity to purchase yarn for my next washcloth.
--Amphitrite
