There is just nothing intuitive about knitting. Sewing pieces of cloth together, yeah I get that. But using sticks to make rows and rows of knots seems to me like the slowest way to get a piece of clothing imaginable. I know, I know, slow is good. Slow food. Slow down. Deep breaths. Whatever. At the rate I am going I may have one sock by the time I am too arthritic to make the matching sock.
Check me out, I am so damn trendy you can smell the wool and kombucha from a mile a way. Here I am with my basket, knitting away. Only if you look close enough you'll notice two things. One, I look like I am wrestling with the yarn rather than gently crafting it into a woolen magnum opus. My hands are clenched around the needles like they might leap out of my hands if I loosen my grip, and my fingers are snarled in a way that makes one think I might need the services of an exorcist. Nothing soft and lovely will come from this.
Two, I am not making anything. I just decided to cast on a random number of stitches one day and go. I am dropping and adding rows and stitches all over the place like a toddler in a toy store. I am just knitting. Period.
So here I am. I am not making anything. My hands hurt. My fingers have little dents in them the same diameter as my bamboo needles. My yarn is a tangled mess. And I truly can't imagine ever doing this at a pace that would one day result in a wearable item for anyone larger than a garden gnome. I doff my cap and bow down to you folks who manage to whip up Christmas sweaters and matchy hats and socks for the whole family. I am just happy to mindlessly make knots, and ponder the sheep, and thank my lucky stars that at the end of this wad of yarn I will be able to step back, look at my patch of rainbow chaos, and then get online and buy my whole family winter sweaters at a store.