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When the vagueries of fate and time conspire and collude with the result that you have F-ed your last UFO, and you feel world-weary and ragged having wrung the last vestage (for now) of creativity from your exhausted bones, what alternative might one posess except to plunge in to the depths of hoarded conglomorations of wool, cotton, tencel, microfiber and rayon known as STASH.
Consumed by boredom with the idea of creating meaningless swatches for pattern that I am completely appathetic about, I instead turned to the radiant countenance of one of my favorite knits. Socks. Oh ye of footed and cuffed goodness, oh ye who are ALWAYS agreeable and ready to hand! I pledge my unswerving devotion to thee, oh Sock.
While I rummaged through skeins of sock yarn, I was overcome with such promise. I felt the potential of each skein and paused for an infinitesimal interval to envision the socks that would proceed from it. Confections of lace and loveliness, concoctions of cables and twists, clean simple stockinette with a delicate picot trimming. Each had it’s inspiration, but I felt that despite these chimeras of creativity, I would do this yarn great injustice in my present mental state. So in my despondency, I turned to the one, long forgotten and abandoned single sock. This poor fellow was the only stocking that I had never mated. He was alone in the great gigantic universe (and my capacious yarn box). Poor, pitiful socky!
Socky’s tale is one of woe. He was begun on a road trip to New Mexico for a floral design and crop judging competition in the adolescence of my sock knitting career. Upon returning home, I realized that I had dropped a stitch in the gusset decreases and watched in terror as the stitch finagled its way out and unravelled 2 inches up the side of the sock. Thereafter, socky was relegated to the depths of the stash bin. Until yesterday.
I unknitted the kitchenered toe and unraveled the entire length of the stocking, wound up the remainder of the ball and washed and hung the kinky mess of wool that once was Socky.
And now Socky has transformed, as a butterfly, into this:

The wee toe-typed beginnings of socks for my love. When the picky discerning man professes his fondness for the sock yarn, you must knit him socks with it, posthaste.
M