Confessions of a Sock Yarn Junkie's Accomplice
Flying the Sock Flag
So here's the thing: once you start knitting socks you can't stop. Oh, you can try. I stopped for a few months until Sandra (yes, Sandra who was on this blog and who has shared many a rowdy conference hotel suite with Dallas and me) sent me some absolutely gorgeous Fortissima Colori and 5 bamboo needles two birthdays ago and Cupid's arrow finally found its mark.
I didn't fall immediately. I fought the feeling. I didn't just roll over (on a bed of roving) and give in. I worked on scarves. I made a few really bad Uxbridge Tweed hats. I even frogged a couple of sweaters. But that yarn, that gorgeous yarn, kept calling to me.
This spring I gave in. I cast on 56 stitches, Magic Loop style, on #1US Addi Turbos and I was off and running. I used my regular sock pattern (trust me, once you understand the architecture of a sock you'll never need a pattern again) with heel flap and gusset and I tried the round toe for the first time. (Love love love it.)
The yarn seduced me. I was mesmerized by the color changes. I was, quite frankly, madly in love with a hunk of spun fiber and not ashamed to admit it.
If I could knit just one thing for the rest of my life (you know, if the Evil Knitting Fairy cast a magic spell on me . . . it could happen) it would be socks. That's how much I love the process. Short enough to keep you interested. Important enough to actually be used. Small enough to be affordable (or not.) And they wear out so you have to make more of them. It's not that you're addicted to the process or anything, right? The socks wore out and you can't run around barefoot in NJ in the dead of winter, can you? Neither can your family. Or your friends. Or barefoot strangers you happen upon in the supermarket.
Or Tom Selleck. (Yes, this one's for you, Dallas.) The poor boy needs a pair of socks.
Who knew our Sock Hop had a humanitarian side?