I have a confession. I am a sock knitter.
I’m not sure what happened. I was going along, knitting a little here and there, reading blogs about how fabulous hand-knit socks are and ignoring the hype… and then I knit a sock.
It started innocently enough; I made M some slipper socks for Christmas. The problem is they were easy to make and they came out looking like a pair. AND they were well received. Next thing I knew I was trolling through Ravelry’s sock patterns, and digging out some lilac-colored alpaca from my stash. It still seemed like a manageable experiment. I can stop at any time, I told myself as I plowed through the Kalajoki socks. No problem.
No problem until I put them on and wouldn’t take them off for longer than I care to admit. They felt soooo good. Turns out all them sock knitters weren’t kidding about how comfy-fabby-warm hand-knit socks are.
M’s birthday was in February and I used the celebration as an excuse to knit him some socks. And, tellingly, to buy more sock yarn than needed.
By then I’d read a blog post about 12 sweaters knit in 12 months, and had seen that The Yarn Harlot knits a pair of socks per month, on top of her other projects. I just knit 3 pairs of socks in 3 months, I thought. I could totally knit 12 pairs in a year!
So March found me knitting my own pair of stripey socks with the leftover birthday yarn + some old green stash yarn. I’m just using up leftovers, I told myself, still in denial.
But then came April. And books about sock knitting were openly checked out of the library. And I shamelessly knit myself a big chunky pair of welly socks, telling myself that if next winter is anything like the one we’ve just escaped then I’ll be needing lots of socks. Thick socks. Long socks…
I’m in trouble, friends. We’re a third of the way through the year and the rash shows no sign of abating.