Knitters
Every woman fights the doldrums in
her own way . . .
Learning how to knit was a
snap. It was learning how to stop that
nearly destroyed me. Everyone in the
house agreed I was tense and needed to unwind.
So, I enrolled in an informal class in knitting. The first week I turned
out thirty-six pot holders.
I couldn't stop myself. By the end of the first month of knitting, I
was sick from relaxation. There were
deep, dark circles under my eyes. There
were calluses on both my thumbs and forefingers. I cried a lot from exhaustion. But I was driven by some mad, inner desire to
knit fifteen toilet tissue covers shaped like little men's hats by the end of
the week.
In the mornings I could hardly wait
until the children were out of the house so I could haul out my knitting bag
full of yarn and begin clicking away.
"All right, group, let's snap it up," I'd yell. "Last one out of the house gets
underwear for Christmas."
"It's only six-thirty,"
they'd yawn sleepily.
"So you're a little
early," I snapped impatiently.
"BUT IT'S SATURDAY!" they
chorused.
My husband was the first one to
suggest I needed professional help.
"You've gone beyond the social aspect of knitting," he
said. "Let's face it. You have a problem and you're going to have
to taper off. From here on in no more
yarn." I promised, but I knew I
wouldn't keep my word.
My addiction eventually led to
dishonesty, lying, cheating, and selling various and sundry items to support my
habit. I was always being
discovered. The family unearthed a skein
of mohair in a cereal box and an argyle kit hidden in the chandelier, and one
afternoon I was found feverishly unraveling an old ski cap just to knit it over
again. One night when the clicking of
the needles in the darkness awakened my husband, he bolted up in bed, snapped
on the light, and said quietly, "Tomorrow, I'm enrolling you in 'Knitters
Anonymous.' Can't you see what's
happening to you? To us? To the children? You can't do this by yourself."
He was right, of course. "Knitters Anonymous" pointed out
the foolishness of my compulsion to knit all the time. They eventually weaned me off yarn and
interested me in another hobby - painting.
Would you believe it? I did eight watercolors the first week,
fifteen charcoal sketches the second, and by the end of the month, I will have
racked up twenty-three oils . . . all on stretched canvasses!
- Erma Bombeck, At Wit's End, Nelson Doubleday, Inc., 1965