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puzzling it out in my unconsciousness all this time, or maybe I just realized it wasn’t nearly as complicated as I had originally made it, but I can now weave with impunity (at least, I can do one type of weave on this particular loom), and the result is the humble beginnings of a proper scarf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: