I have an exciting loom update—my aforementioned
loom dyslexia seems to have mysteriously cured itself! I don’t know how or why,
I just know that I put the loom away for about a week, and when I picked it up
again a few days ago, something just clicked and I got it! Maybe my brain was
puzzling it out in my unconsciousness all this time, or maybe I just realized
it wasn’t nearly as complicated as I had originally made it, but I can now
weave with impunity (at least, I can do one type of weave on this particular
loom), and the result is the humble beginnings of a proper scarf (pictured here.)
It’s slow going, but I like that. I’m one of those jittery leg-jiggling types
who always has to have something to do with my hands, and weaving is very
calming and Zen-like. Granted, I have no idea how to remove the weave from the
loom properly, or how to finish it or add fringe, but I figure I’ll deal with
that when the time comes. For now, I’ve got hours of Zen-like weaving ahead of
me, and my friend has a very flawed scarf to look forward to.
I need the Zen because I seem to be suffering
from a bit of age dysphoria, and it’s confusing. I feel both old and not-old at
the same time. On the one hand, I worry that I’m accelerating into becoming a shawl-wrapped
granny at an exponential rate. More and more, I want slowness and peaceful domesticity
and quiet. I am increasingly disturbed by loud noises and crowds and traffic. The
last time I went to the dentist, I had to resist the urge to ask him if he was
twelve. Everyone looks twelve years old to me now. I actually discussed the
possibility of covering my slowly creeping gray hairs with my stylist during my
last haircut. (His verdict: Don’t do it. Red hair is too difficult to color.) On
the other hand, I’ve done lots of things over the last year or so that were new
for me, like traveling overseas for the first time and learning to shoot a
firearm. I don’t feel my actual age in any way, and I’m quite puzzled by it. It
seems to have nothing whatsoever to do with me. I have every sympathy for that
Dutch man who was in the news recently because he wanted to change his age so
he could have better luck with the ladies and garner more respect. I suspect my
age dysphoria wouldn’t be so bad if the media would stop pushing this nonsense
that forty is the new twenty and fifty is the new thirty, and showing pictures
of sixty-year-olds modeling in bikinis. Whatever happened to the idea of aging
gracefully? Bleh. Excuse me while I go wrap up in a shawl and literally tend to my
knitting.
Speaking of sitting, there is an ugly chair in
our living room, plunked there extraneously from when Mr. Typist got a new
chair for his computer room desk. He was supposed
to dismantle said ugly chair and take it out the dumpster, but I had a sneaking
suspicion that he is emotionally attached to that chair and would be loathe to
throw it out. I was right. It’s been there for well over two months now. And Mr.
Typist and Buddy the Cat have formed a sneaky, chair-keeping coalition, both
trying to emotionally manipulate me into agreeing that the chair can stay.
Buddy takes stubbornly long naps on it, and Mr. Typist keeps commenting on how
much Buddy loves that chair and how important it is to his cat mental health. I
think I lost the ugly chair battle for good yesterday when Mr. Typist put Buddy’s
favorite cardboard box on the chair, and Buddy immediately climbed into it and
went to sleep. I don’t hate the chair quite enough yet to deprive Buddy of his
favorite napping spot, but one of these days, I will snap, and that chair is going to be thrown over the deck by my
own, brittle, aging hands. I’ll let you know when that day comes. In the
meantime, here’s a little laugh for you:
1 comment:
Love it! :--)
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