Confessions of a Sock Convert

I’m one of those people who knits selfishly. I started knitting mainly out of boredom, but also because I was fairly sure that if I could sew what I wanted to, I could create the knitted things that I wanted in just the same way. I mean, why not?
Tangent: it always makes me sad when I hear people say, “I’m not talented.” What does that mean? I wasn’t born knowing how to knit or sew or cook or play the piano. I had to learn all those things, and in all cases, someone had to teach me. I believe it all comes down to a) determination to succeed, and b) stupidity. I’m truly too stupid to know when something might be too big for me to take on. Like, say, reupholstering my couch. But, friends, once you’ve got the fabric ripped off and you’re looking at the bare frame, there’s NOT MUCH YOU CAN DO ABOUT IT, is there? You have to learn to reupholster, and fast. And really, any determined idiot can do it. It’s the determined part that matters.

In any event, I learned to knit. But I never could see the appeal of knitting socks. I wanted to knit sweaters–glorious, cabled, richly-colored, beautiful sweaters for myself and my children. And maybe my husband. πŸ˜‰ But socks? Why spend the money? The time? Why put all that effort into something that’ll be hidden under your pants and your shoes, and that you can buy for next-to-nothing anyway?

And then I met sock yarn. Hoo boy. Sock yarn and I have a love affair, and it’s a problem. Now, luckily, I’ve been able to discover all kinds of things one can knit from sock yarn that are *not* socks. Baby clothes, scarves and wraps, even airy fine-gauge sweaters–but the truth is that most sock yarn is specifically dyed in order to make lovely, color-shifting, squishy socks. So I made a pair.

Snicket socks

See? Well, they were OK. I loved the color, but despite all my best calculations (and I’m good at calculations), they were too big, and didn’t get worn much. They were squishy and comfortable, but they slid around a bit, and didn’t fit into any of my shoes. They’ve become my “it’s cold in here” socks. I wear them to bed sometimes.

But lately, I’ve found myself a tad, erm, overwhelmed, and unable to commit to enormous knitting projects. My knitting mojo even got lost for a while, and I was frustrated and bored. Serendipitously, just as I was feeling most frustrated, one of my girlfriends sent me a fat skein of Wollmeise–yes, the famous, elusive Wollmeise–and it just spoke to me. “I,” it said, “am socks. I am gorgeous, fantastic, intricate socks. You bought a book–remember? It should have something that’s inspirational. Go get it. Now.” This was a very impatient skein. But you know how those Germans are.

And so I found my book, and Kristi, by Cookie A. Inspirational, indeed. And see? See how intuitive that skein was? It just knew how beautiful it could be.

Kristi socks

These are some fantastic socks. I think they might have converted me.

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5 thoughts on “Confessions of a Sock Convert

  1. 1. YOU RIPPED THE FABRIC OFF YOUR COUCH????????
    You, my friend, are one gutsy woman. I *might* have ripped the fabric off my couch, but then upon realizing what I just did, I would have sat on the floor and cried.

    2. Those socks are gorgeous and I mean both pairs. I know what you mean about the first pair being too big thought. Been there, done that. And I also know what you mean about sock yarn making a person really want to knit socks when any otherwise sane, rational person would just go buy a pair for $2.00 at Target. The second pair? Took my breath away.

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  2. Indeed, Inspiring πŸ™‚

    Jen, I’ve recently been looking at moving out of my comfort (toe-up, short row heel) zone with socks, and I’ve been gradually approaching my Cookie A book, then veering off again, for a while. Time to dust it off and get on with it, I think!

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  3. I totally get it now! I just need to start projects which, if left unfinished, make it impossible to live comfortably! Thanks for the inspiration! I will be “talented” in no time. πŸ™‚
    Look at that prettily pointed toe! I forget that you were a ballerina. πŸ™‚

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