Frogging My Engagement

“You guys should watch out,” Blake said. “Dania’s psycho about the knitting – she’s addicted.” I looked down at my swatch, stung. I thought back to when my knitting was something he thought was cool, unusual, a talent. I remembered when I made him socks and he had called them his best Christmas present ever. I tried to think of something smart-ass to say back, but my eyes swam, and so I pretended to count the rows on the swatch. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Marie put down her knitting, carefully jerking her nascent scarf all the way to the back of the needles, so careful not to drop a stitch. I felt her and Katie’s arms around my back.

That night, I had finished my swatch, hit the right gauge, and started the actual sweater. The six of us played poker at the dining table. I knit and played at the same time, gulping red wine, desperate for the weekend to be over. I did pretty well at the game, at least for a while, but then Blake figured out my strategy and took me down.

“You’re so stupid,” he said as he pulled the pile of chips toward his body. He refused to lend me chips. I refilled my wine glass and knit faster, more intently.

It was our habit to take the train together in morning. I knit while standing, my ball in a bag dangling from my wrist, my purse on the floor between my feet. We kept the joint commuting up even when we had nothing to say to each other – or when we were fighting.

“Sorry,” I’d interrupt him, “hang on, I need to count the stitches.” It shut him up. I felt victorious, mean and small. I counted rows I didn’t need to count.

Read the rest — buy the book at your local yarn store, local book store, or from Powell’s Books by clicking on the jacket photo.

Blake glanced over. “You guys should watch out,” he told Jason and

Sherman. “Dania’s psycho about the knitting – she’s addicted.” I looked down at my

swatch, stung. I thought back to when my knitting was something he thought was cool,

unusual, a talent. I remembered the socks. I tried to think of something smart-ass to say

back, but my eyes swam, and so I pretended to count the rows on the swatch. Out of the

corner of my eye, I saw Marie put down her knitting, carefully jerking her nascent scarf

all the way to the back of the needles, so careful not to drop a stitch. I felt she and Katie’s

arms around my back.
That night, I had finished my swatch, hit the right gauge, and started the actual

sweater. The six of us played poker at the dining table. I knit and played at the same time,

gulping red wine, desperate for the weekend to be over. I did pretty well at the game, at

least for a while, but then Blake figured out my strategy and took me down.

“You’re so stupid,” he said as he pulled the pile of chips toward his body. He

refused to lend me chips. I refilled my wine glass and knit faster, more intently.

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