I went to the craft store despite having a headache. Knitting, after all, is supposed to be relaxing so I convince myself the supplies are equally relaxing.
The craft store smells good and reminds me of my mom buying fabric in the 70s to make our Halloween costumes and groovy pants. Remember pinking shears? So fancy.
Instead of going directly to the knitting section, I find myself wandering over to the silk flowers and wreaths. I suspect this could be another budding hobby in the future. I force myself away and cross to the back of the store. Past the beads and jewelry, past the planters, past the spools of thread.
I overhear two women talking about how everyone asks why they bother with such crafts. “I love it,” says the one. “I won’t be stoping anytime soon.” For some reason, the conversation touches me and I haul ass to the yarn.
Four glorious aisles of yarn!
For as many beautiful colors and combinations, there are as many awful ones. Like, what would anyone knit using yarn the color of diarrhea? I send a few sample pictures to my writer friends for fun. They instruct me to buy black and knit a cloak for Steve’s knockout 15-year old daughter. I might try it.
Using my coupon, I purchase $60 of yarn. I buy two huge loaves (balls, bundles, reams?) of baby yarn so I can knit infant caps and donate them to premies. Don’t worry, I won’t do this until I can knit something besides a washclopotholder.
I also buy many other varieties so I can fuck up pretty scarves, hats, sweaters, the options are endless! I can’t wait to get this yarn home so I can get started.