Take Me in Your Arms

At the moment, my forearms feel like unset pudding, my hands feel like ground beef, and my elbows crack and protest when I so much as swing them while walking. Let's just say I've been knitting too much. I haven't been this bad in a few years.

I had been beavering away at LB's sweater, ignoring all the please-don't-hurt-me-mommy-I'll-be-good-I-promise signals my body was sending out, and was pretty pleased with my progress. There had not been any significant errors-- errors that would require ripping, that is--for several days. Which is a damn good thing, because our anniversary is tomorrow.

The trouble came when I was nearing the end of the sleeves, and I held them up to my arm to get a look. Right away, I could tell there was a problem. The sleeves are long--very long, as in monkey-arms long.

More specifically, I have about 18 more rows to go & the sleeves are already past my fingertips. Normally, I'd just stop the sleeves at this point, but this is a striped sweater and the stripes have 24 rows each. To alter the striping on the sleeve essentially requires beginning the whole sweater anew.

Crap.

It's silly really. I got the yarn for practically nothing. I only began the sweater to calm my pre-filming nerves. LB is unlikely to have an anniversary present for me either. He's unlikely to even like the sweater. I fully acknowedge its dorkiness. I sort of envisioned it as something he could toss on, spill coffee all over, and not worry about messing up. In fact, I don't even expect it to hold up very well given that the wool is almost 20 years old.

Yet I'm upset, worried about the stripes on the sleeves not matching the stripes on the body.

I don't think I'll rip. It occurred to me to put the sweater on myself and knot it up in a sort of a straight jacket, but maybe I'll just put the sweater on him, tie the wrists together and console myself in the space between his arms.
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• Boob-ha-ha was fun. I went with Rachel & Scott, Chris, Tammy, & Fiona. Also met Carrie, and Robin. Before hand, I thought to myself, "What does one wear to an event called Boob-ha-ha? It probably shouldn't be a turtleneck." Had I known I'd also run into a former student, I would not have picked the tiny little leopard-skin tank top.

• The needlework purses talk went well. Go ahead. Ask away. I thought I was prepared for any question. It turns out I was not prepared to be asked in front of a room full of 90+ women whether or not I was wearing underwear.