I love Chris. Let’s be clear about that right up front. He makes me laugh, he loves the dog, he introduced me to Thai food for goodness sake. But — and please understand the depth of my frustration here — can’t the guy have normal hands?
Perhaps some explanation is in order. Several years ago, I knit both my dad and my stepdad pairs of Knitty’s Broad Street Mittens. I followed the pattern (in a slightly larger gauge than called for to size up the pattern’s specified women’s medium), and when I came to the end I had, as you might expect, a pair of man-sized gloves that fit the recipient well. Twice.
Then Chris requested a pair. Never one to turn down a requested handknit, especially one at which I was so sure of succeeding, I cast on.
This is where it gets ugly. Knitters, you may want to stop here if you’d like to sleep peacefully tonight. Because friends, I made a total of three pairs of gloves in an endless cycle of knit-and-rip, knit-and-rip. Just as I was certain I’d figured out the problem and was knitting blissfully along, he would try them on and we’d discover that the thumb gusset was an inch too long. Or that the base of the hand was two inches too wide. Or too narrow. Over and over and over I knit those gloves, and over and over and over I ripped. (Which, incidentally, is a great advertisement for Baby Ull. Even after the eighth large-scale frogging, that yarn was nearly fresh as a daisy.) Finally, after many tears, probably too much chocolate, and more swearing than I should probably admit to in public, I ended up with two gloves that fit. I have photographic evidence:
(Those are Chris’s hands, and that is the balcony of my law school apartment. See? Proof.)
He loved them. He wore them. And then, because the universe seeks to destroy me, he lost them.
And because I apparently seek to destroy myself, I didn’t write down how I made them fit.
All of which brings us to today, and the 586,439th Broad Street Mitten.
Don’t lose these.