Last night, I stayed up too late. I admit it. It was not my aim, not in the slightest. But it all comes down to socks.
Because that is, in reality, what life is all about.
I enjoy myself knitting; there is no pleasure like slipping on a warm woolen sock. Well, except slipping on two woolen socks. To me, that is an experience of great joy, first of knowing that I myself crafted my footwear with nothing but string and pointed sticks, second of knowing that I have the skill to do it correctly--my socks are NOT sloppy concoctions, and thirdly that I am my intended recipient and can enjoy both the process of knitting and the product I put on before I leave the house.
Knitting gives almost immediate gratification. A tangible item, finished or no, awaits one after an hour of knitting. I also can hold it in my hand, show it to others, and see their reactions, which I don't get from this blog, for example. You may well enjoy reading it, but I can't see you do it. But I can run up to you, whip off my shoe, and point downward at a wooly sock.
How could I not? Just look at them!
So last night, I finished the Christmas Socks, which made me superbly happy. The last sock was knitted in two days, half in one, half in the other, as a product of the massive anxiety related to seeing the wrong side of the family for pre-Christmas. But yesterday, though the cause of my terror had subsided, I could not help but burn through the remainder of it simply so I could see the way they looked on. I originally intended to have them for actual Christmas, but I suppose Christmas Eve will do nicely.