Becky and I are knitting these socks together, even though we are roughly 16,000 kilometres distant from one another, with a fourteen hour time-difference. A two-person knitalong, if you will (my goofy damn husband is calling it The Great Sock-off of 2008, and keeps asking who’s winning. I try to explain that it’s a knit-along, not a knit-against, but this is apparently too subtle a distinction for his tiny man-brain to comprehend).
Meet Pink Salto, a thing of beauty and a joy forever – or at least until I frog it tomorrow morning. Yep, this beautiful, perfect almost-an-entire-sock, with its elegantly curved cables and its totally-perfect-on-the-very-first-try gusset must be frogged. Why? Why? WHY? I hear you shriek, much the way I did. Well, this fine example of the socky breed is not for me. It is a gift for someone with feet that are a good bit wider than mine, and who also has quite a high instep. Given that I had to fight to get it on over my heel (and even harder to get it back off again), there is no way that this is going to fit the intended recipient. Thus, I must now rip back three days worth of work and do it over with bigger needles.
Becky, I guess this means you’re winning. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go and curl up in a foetal position and whimper for a while.