So, the Stitch Diva sweater I’m working on, my very first sweater, is going swimmingly. When I started it out I actually, um, didn’t really read the instructions. Instead, I nodded my my head, going “yeah yeah yeah I get it, whatever,” which worked out great until it came time to try it on.
Since it’s a top-down raglan, you try it on partway through and see how it’s fitting around your chest and over your cleavage before you separate the arm stitches and work the body. I slid it onto a longer needle — bless my Denise needles! Instead of sliding hundreds of stitches onto waste yarn, I just slipped them on an extra-long needle and laid the fabric over my shoulders.
There was no checking out cleavage coverage. Instead of reaching to my armpits, the thin little strip barely reached my collarbones. WTF? I counted the stitches — about 120 instead of the 300-plus I was supposed to have.
Of course, it couldn’t be my fault. I know how to read, don’t I? I checked the Internet for errata, but none applied to the pattern. I read up on knit-alongs looking for tips, but nobody else seemed to have run into this problem.
I reviewed the pattern, the same way I would for baffled customers at the yarn store who just couldn’t seem to understand why they kept getting sleeves designed for orangutans instead of people, sweaters without armholes and baby blankets shaped like the little countries that popped up after the USSR dissolved. I was doing the increases exactly as called for …
… sort of. As I frowned at the heavily marked up pattern, I noticed something. “Repeat rows 2-9 six times.” That? That is distinctly not the same as “Repeat rows 8 and 9 six times.”
Dammit. Well, if I was gonna be sloppy, I deserved whatever stupid mistakes came my way. I ripped out, cast on and kept rolling. The Noro “Cash Iroha” is remarkably resilient to being ripped, I’ll give it that. Either that, or it’s just slubby and irregular enough that whatever flaws I’m adding to it blend seamlessly into the flaws that were there to begin with.
Anyway, it’s been just ducky since then, and now I’m — well, not exactly bored. It’s just that I don’t think I’ll find much challenge between now and the finish, and I live for challenges. I’m marching along with ever-longer rows of soothing stockinette, and I’m wishing somehow it weren’t so damn pleasant. I wish this were a finer gauge, I find myself thinking. I think I’m making too much progress.
This may be related to the way that when I go jogging, I run until I feel like I’m gonna throw up. It’s all about pushing yourself until something extraordinary happens! Or until you knit until your carpal tunnel-afflicted wrists and hands curl into stiff claws.