I gave away my knitting box. Everything I had: the needles, the faux wool (because I'm allergic to real wool), even the lovely suitcase-box with a handle and clasp I'd bought at Michael's to put it in.
I've tried knitting several times in my life. When young; we learned it in school. When older: having learned to knit, I found I liked crochet better, set about to make an afghan when I was a post-grad. I even made a baby-bundler for a friend who was having a baby once. It was yellow. It was the lumpiest, funniest, badly made baby bundler you ever saw. I don't remember whose shower it was for; I hope they ultimately forgave me for the gift. I hope the poor baby never had to wear it. He'd be the laughingstock of babies.
I had the notion that because I like to sew, I should enjoy knitting. Then I thought that if I practiced hard enough, and often enough, I might get good at it, and then start to enjoy it.
These things have not happened.
People often knit while watching television. I do that too. But then when the show gets interesting, I stop knitting to pay attention. Or I grimly continue to knit, and feel irritated and edgy about it. I don't like dividing my attention between two things at once.
So yesterday, in the interests of decluttering, I offered my knitting kit to Sylvie, and she accepted it. I realized as soon as I mentioned it that I'd been feeling a vague guilt for not knitting, for not being good at knitting, for not finding it relaxing and production and useful the way so many of my friends do.
No more knitting. No more guilt. And one step closer to having nothing on top of my dresser.
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