It was a Saturday night. The Fiance wanted to bowl. Until midnight. (Read: Hi, past my bedtime). So, I sent him on his merry, bowling way with his brother, and I went home. To his grandma's. To learn how to knit. (On a Saturday night. Because it's what I do).
I would liken the experience to teaching a donkey to walk solely on its front legs. As in, I'm so sure knitting is THAT COMPLICATED. Alright, well, I'll give myself SOME credit and admit I eventually sort of, possibly, picked up on it, but not before nearly losing the patience of the woman who gave me the yarn and knitting needles for Christmas. And who once gave The Fiance a bath in the sink. And who also once had a conversation with me about a homeless man's, er, member. (I love her!)
So there I was. Two knitting needles held clumsily in my hands. One ball of yarn in my lap. And one grandma standing overhead, saying a lot, but using mostly the words, "No," "No, no, honey. Not like that," and, "Don't worry, you'll pick up on it. Eventually."
I aspire to make a blanket. She hopes I can successfully run three stitches together. Note: I mostly cannot. Sigh. I tried several times Saturday night. And tried. And tried. And tried, and tried, and tried. And all attempts ended in my giving up, pulling the yarn off the knitting needles, and responding, "Yes," to the question, "Giving up again?"
Before heading home for the weekend, she gave me a scarf she once made, and told me to use it to study the pattern while practicing. I secretly think she gave it to my out of pity. "Poor girl. She'll never make one of these."
However, I shall carry on. And one day, I'll make a blanket. Dangit. And I will dedicate it to her. And probably give it to my own grandchildren because I'll likely be that old before I accomplish this task.