Let me say it again: The Step Socks are done. Finished. Completed. Ends woven in, little bobbles corrected. They are now happily residing on Goldisox's (big) feet where they will live in splendor, harmony, and lanolin/jojoba comfort for eternity.
They'd better because I'm never going to knit another #*@(!! sock again as long as I live. That's it for socks. Socks are the devil's workshop. Socks exist only to make middle-aged NJ romance-writing knitters barking mad.
These socks almost broke my spirit, along with my Addi Turbos.
And don't you even whisper the words, "Hey, Bretton! They don't match," because I know they don't match. I don't do matching socks. The day I attempt matching socks is the day you can reserve a lovely room for me in one of those places where the walls are softly padded and everyone whispers.
But right now I'm not whispering, I'm yelling at the top of my lungs, "The Step Socks are finished! The Step Socks are finished!"