So I have this group of crafty friends who are great at everything they do, but a particular group favourite is crochet. Watching them sipping tea accompanied with their mountains of yarn gives me ‘Nam flashbacks of trying to learn knitting as a nine year old.
Despite this, for a year or so I’ve waved off their futile efforts, saying “yeah yeah, I’ll try it one day”. So, I was getting ready to leave my friends place before this craft hell began, I made the mistake of sitting near a pile of yarn. It was swiftly handed to me, along with a book. I still had my bag on, so I figured I couldn’t get sucked into anything too serious when I began perusing pages of various stitches and witches (okay, maybe just stitches, but I don’t know what kind of book this really is).
I’m not too sure what exactly happened next, I assume one of them blanked my memory with some kind of blood sacrifice as I had basically walked into a fluffy, woolen cult. The needle thing I was given is apparently called a “hook” or some shit. It looked like something you would use to clean those hard to reach areas in your ears. Maybe they’re for picking wooly filth out of your nails, or jamming in a filling, I don’t know what really goes on here.
The cult leader began asking me questions.
“Do you know how to do a slipknot?”
“Unless it involves masking up and headbanging, then not really.” I replied. She made one for me and started to give me instructions.
Not how you start crochet.
But they could be row numbers, how am I supposed to know.
She tried pointing at pictures on how to start but it just looked like squiggles, especially as I just don’t understand diagrams of depth perception. I couldn’t tell what went where, what was behind, what was through.. I tried just mooshing it together but that didn’t seem to work.
And here is how you begin a foundation stitch.
WHY DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND ME?!
I kept pulling at the stupid white yarn but it just wasn’t getting any easier. I also swiftly learned that crochet involves far too much innuendo than I like to imagine older ladies chortling at over scones.
“Always go from behind”
“That’s too tight”
“Sometimes you’ve just gotta push it in there”
“Turn it around and go through”
Crochet advice, or marriage advice? You decide.
After about ten grueling minutes, I had made what looked like a headless sperm. What an achievement.
I finally started to get on a bit of a roll, despite my thumb feeling like the bone was going to fling out from being jabbed with a wool stick. I didn’t really know what to do, so I just sort of kept going for a while. Once I had made a mighty fine string, I figured I should thicken this bad boy up.
As it turns out, going back the way you came is about five times harder and feels like the biggest waste of time. I had apparently made my first line too tight so I couldn’t wedge the stupid stick in properly. Apparently there’s even a certain direction you need to jab it in, but it becomes this weird cube, how am I supposed to know where the goddamn front is?!
Turns out I am not so good at winging it.
Anyways, after I did some blotchy cubing I decided that this was balls and I was ready to pack it in.
“WAIT! You need a stitch saver!”
A what now?
So there’s a fancy paperclip that you also need to stop your life’s work from unraveling itself, making your day pointless.
After I spent a thousand hours going back the way I came and seemingly making no progress, I defiantly quit. Crochet lowers you into a false sense of security. You eventually get a rhythm happening until you have go back the way you came and it ruins your life forever. Perhaps if I ever try this damn thing again, I’ll try making a thing so I feel like I actually accomplished something. Perhaps that will make it more enjoyable, rather than spending hours creating a deluxe tampon string. That’s exactly what breaking my fingers all day accomplished, a fancy string.
I feel like all I accomplished today was getting a lot of swearing out of my system and World of Warcraft amount of RSI in my fingers and neck.
This was the worst.
Until I work up the courage to make a thing, I will put down my weird hook stick and move on to another monotonous craft. Hopefully I won’t have any crochet PTSD flashbacks next time I’m at the dentist.