Suicide by Knitting Needles

I give God a snowball chance in hell to respond to my rapid-fire ontological interrogation:

Are You there?

What are You doing ?

Don’t You care?

Is there any bloody mercy?

The-Ghost-of-Unmet-Expectations-of-the-Past-meets-the-Ghost-of-Unmet-Expectations-of-the-Present weighs on my shoulders like a supersized North Face backpack of an American college student touring Europe.  But I am not a college student touring Europe on cheap Euro-rail pass anymore and the weight is too much for my middle-aged sagging shoulders. I need something like an emergency alert reaction from God but even the woefully slow neighborhood Domino’s pizza delivery guy has better response time. I feel an irresistible urge to take things into my own hands and do something – anything - myself.

And do it immediately.  

I will not disappoint my daughter.  Never.  Ever.  Again.

Fueled by this noble determination I start with what I know.  

The books!  

I scour the dusty shelves of the local library and ferret our every knitting book published since Gutenberg invented the printing press.  I order all the instructional videos and DVDs and spend all my waking hours poring over them.

I feverishly surf the DIY blogs, websites, Facebook pages,  and review every last one YouTube video on the beginner knitting for dummies, idiots and the like.

 

I have recurring nightmares of giant knitted bunnies chasing me through the woods with knitting needles in their paws until I reach a barren rocky clearing and tumble headlong off the cliff. 

I am stabbed, poked, pierced with the knitting needles until I bleed.  The polyester thread has cut into my finger-flesh exposing my brittle bones. 

On the day when I almost strangle myself with the darn yarn,  I know that’s it. Its all over.  The end.