the folks standing here when the elevator door opened three minutes ago with my little ball of yarn sitting in the middle of it. I stepped off, and I surveyed them.
That’s when it hit me. One of these people was a knitter. They had been standing here, waiting in the queue when they had heard the elevator bell chime, and out of natural human curiosity, they had looked over to see who was getting off. The door had opened, and there had been my single ball of exquisite handpainted merino sock yarn. They had been stunned. I mean, here they were, standing in line at the passport office, bored out of their tree (I imagined that this would be the one day they had forgotten to bring their own sock to knit with them), and out of the blue, while they were standing there thinking, “Woe is me, if only I had a little bit of sock yarn,” and the door opened, and they looked in and saw it. An offering from the elevator gods. They must have been stunned. They surely looked around, decided that if they were quick they might not be caught, ducked out of the queue, snagged the yarn, and resumed their position, clandestine yarn stuffed in their pocket, hardly believing their luck as the elevator doors closed and returned to me.
Suddenly, I knew this was true. I’d been robbed. Yarn stores occasionally report theft (and on my bad days, I could sympathize with the criminals), and who among us would saythat if they were suddenly offered free-range yarn, tendered by an elevator in the passport office, we definitely wouldn’t take it? Taking yarn from another knitter was one thing, but taking it from an elevator wouldn’t seem that bad. Elevators don’t even knit.
I took my place in line, my doomed half sock still clutched in my sweaty hand, and I tried to empathize with the thief. They couldn’t have known what they were doing. A knitter would never take the yarn that another knitter needed to finish something, and I really believe that they would never take the only yarn a knitter had on them, if only for reasons of personal safety. This mystery knitter couldn’t have thought it through. It must have seemed miraculous to them: Just stand there, and an elevator gives you yarn. What a great day.
I spent the rest of my time in line ripping back the half sock I had and beginning a pair of booties, since this event had changed my project’s destiny. I tried to be happy. I tried to love my fellow knitter. I tried to forgive and forget, and I didn’t shove a single person up against the wall by the elevator and frisk them on their way out.
I’m still rather proud of that.
Left-Leaning Decreases
Stories about Women, Politics, Knitters, and Looking at Things a Different Way
Ken
I’m not going to describe how my friend Ken knits. Enough people look at him while he does it. He’s like a magnet. Everywhere he goes people swarm around him, particularly women. Now, Ken’s an attractive guy, but that just doesn’t explain the interest women show in him. Young women, old women, knitters and the non-knitting alike, they can’t take their eyes off him while he knits. They sidle up to him in restaurants, stare admiringly on buses. They stop walking and come over and talk to him about it, and I know it’s not just the knitting that does it, because I knit in public all the time, and all I’ve ever gotten is the occasional, “Oh, I wish I could knit.” Or, “You must be so patient.” Now, I’m at least as attractive as Ken, so I know that the attention has to do with the combination of his Y chromosome and yarn. You would think male knitting was Brad Pitt in a thong for how much attention it gets.
Last summer (or maybe the summer before) I sat on a park bench next to Ken, and we both knit. It wasn’t an experiment, but it sure got me some information. I happened to be knitting a lace shawl. Very fancy, very intricate—a whole lot of points on the “impressing people in public” scale. Though he is a very competent knitter, this
That’s when it hit me. One of these people was a knitter. They had been standing here, waiting in the queue when they had heard the elevator bell chime, and out of natural human curiosity, they had looked over to see who was getting off. The door had opened, and there had been my single ball of exquisite handpainted merino sock yarn. They had been stunned. I mean, here they were, standing in line at the passport office, bored out of their tree (I imagined that this would be the one day they had forgotten to bring their own sock to knit with them), and out of the blue, while they were standing there thinking, “Woe is me, if only I had a little bit of sock yarn,” and the door opened, and they looked in and saw it. An offering from the elevator gods. They must have been stunned. They surely looked around, decided that if they were quick they might not be caught, ducked out of the queue, snagged the yarn, and resumed their position, clandestine yarn stuffed in their pocket, hardly believing their luck as the elevator doors closed and returned to me.
Suddenly, I knew this was true. I’d been robbed. Yarn stores occasionally report theft (and on my bad days, I could sympathize with the criminals), and who among us would saythat if they were suddenly offered free-range yarn, tendered by an elevator in the passport office, we definitely wouldn’t take it? Taking yarn from another knitter was one thing, but taking it from an elevator wouldn’t seem that bad. Elevators don’t even knit.
I took my place in line, my doomed half sock still clutched in my sweaty hand, and I tried to empathize with the thief. They couldn’t have known what they were doing. A knitter would never take the yarn that another knitter needed to finish something, and I really believe that they would never take the only yarn a knitter had on them, if only for reasons of personal safety. This mystery knitter couldn’t have thought it through. It must have seemed miraculous to them: Just stand there, and an elevator gives you yarn. What a great day.
I spent the rest of my time in line ripping back the half sock I had and beginning a pair of booties, since this event had changed my project’s destiny. I tried to be happy. I tried to love my fellow knitter. I tried to forgive and forget, and I didn’t shove a single person up against the wall by the elevator and frisk them on their way out.
I’m still rather proud of that.
Left-Leaning Decreases
Stories about Women, Politics, Knitters, and Looking at Things a Different Way
Ken
I’m not going to describe how my friend Ken knits. Enough people look at him while he does it. He’s like a magnet. Everywhere he goes people swarm around him, particularly women. Now, Ken’s an attractive guy, but that just doesn’t explain the interest women show in him. Young women, old women, knitters and the non-knitting alike, they can’t take their eyes off him while he knits. They sidle up to him in restaurants, stare admiringly on buses. They stop walking and come over and talk to him about it, and I know it’s not just the knitting that does it, because I knit in public all the time, and all I’ve ever gotten is the occasional, “Oh, I wish I could knit.” Or, “You must be so patient.” Now, I’m at least as attractive as Ken, so I know that the attention has to do with the combination of his Y chromosome and yarn. You would think male knitting was Brad Pitt in a thong for how much attention it gets.
Last summer (or maybe the summer before) I sat on a park bench next to Ken, and we both knit. It wasn’t an experiment, but it sure got me some information. I happened to be knitting a lace shawl. Very fancy, very intricate—a whole lot of points on the “impressing people in public” scale. Though he is a very competent knitter, this
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