I Am A Funless Slacker

In my fiftieth year, I discovered I am not that fun. Not only am I not fun, my idea of fun is skewed, perhaps even twisted. When I turned fifty, I declared I did not want a party or any celebration. Instead, I opted to make a list of fifty fun things I wanted to accomplish in my fiftieth year. Not only am I not fun, I am a slacker. I am a funless slacker. Is funless even a word? It is now. It’s my blog; I’m declaring it so. I have done an abysmal job of accomplishing anything on my list. Even worse, I have lost my list. Not only have I lost my list, I can’t remember half of the ideas I put on the list. Technically, that makes me a funless, irresponsible slacker. Sigh.

Occasionally, inspiration strikes, and I remember my list of fifty fun things and feel motivated to accomplish something on said list. Then I try to do something on my list and wonder what I was thinking, putting this on a list of fun things. Take, for example, crocheting. I have a fascination with textiles and yarn. I wonder through the aisles of fabric stores, and I can imagine beautiful creations coming from exquisite fabrics. Then I remember I can only sew a straight line, and if I’m being transparent, my lines aren’t that straight. It’s the same with yarn. I look at the gorgeous threads on display at the market, and I can imagine scarves, blankets, sweaters, and shawls made from these beautiful hand-dyed yarns. Then, I remember my failed attempts at learning to knit and crochet.

Grambarb is an extremely talented and capable woman who can sew, knit, and crochet. Quite a while ago, she tried to teach me to knit. She still laughs at my failed attempts, my lack of patience, and the foul language that flew from my mouth. She taught me how to cast on and create a basic stitch. Once she felt I understood the process and had a handle on making stitches, she went off to do something else. As soon as she walked away, I messed up, dropped a stitch, and yelled, “Son of B****!” She told me to tear out the whole row because it was full of errors. I was aghast that she expected me to undo everything I had spent the last half hour doing and growled, “Mother f*****!” under my breath. Grambarb also has extraordinary hearing and heard me. She laughed until tears rolled down her face. Soon, she became as frustrated with me as I was with knitting, and we called it a day. I never picked up knitting needles again. However, I buy Grambarb yarn and patterns to make pretty things should she feel like it.

Last Friday, Jenna tried to teach me to crochet. We sat on the porch, and I watched her for a while. She then handed me a needle and yarn and tried to help me tie a slip knot, which I never mastered. She also tried to teach me to hold the yarn and the needle properly. That also did not go very well. I have too many fingers; too much is going on with holding the yarn in one hand with a needle in the other. It wasn’t long before the foul language began flowing. I informed Jenna I thought I would do better with a larger needle. Hoping that would be an excuse to quit and end the painful lesson. Jenna called my bluff and pulled out a bigger needle. Sigh. It’s like she knows me. Using a bigger needle did not improve my abilities.

We worked until dark, and Jenna told me we would work on crocheting another day. Incidentally, Jenna has not been back this week. The Bean and I went to JoAnne Fabrics on Monday. I picked up a medium-sized crochet hook and big, wide, chenille yarn that can’t split into threads. I thought this might be easier to work with and less frustrating. I have discovered it is not the size of the hook or the type of yarn. It is me. I am the problem. Not only do I not know how to turn yarn into textiles, I’m too dense to figure it out. Not only am I dense, I am impatient and foul-mouthed. Sigh.

I did indeed get started with my new yarn and needle. Eric had to tie the slip knot for me. I counted my stitches and created a first row. I then tried to add a second and third row. I’m pretty sure it is not correct. I showed The Bean what I did and told her I felt like it was all wrong. She kissed me on the cheek and said, “Well, whatever you ARE doing, you’re making it stick together.” Sigh. I don’t think that was a compliment.

I have also discovered that I don’t find knitting or crocheting fun. I was stupid to put crocheting on my list. I was foolish to think I could do it. I was even more ridiculous to think I would enjoy it. I am an instant gratification kind of girl. The idea of working on a project for hours doesn’t sound like fun; it sounds like torture. However, I am going to keep pecking away at it. I hope to make a scarf. However, when that God-forsaken scarf is finished, I am done. I will give up the grand disillusion of making a blanket or a sweater. I have no patience or interest. Instead, I think I might get my motorcycle license. I want a pink Vespa with a basket. I’m pretty sure Eric will shut that one down, but a girl can dream. In my idealistic world, I will be driving a pink Vespa with my perfectly crocheted scarf flying behind me in the wind. Now, that, dear reader, sounds like fun.

On this lovely July day, stay safe, be smart, and be realistic; it’s okay to make up words in your own little world, know your limitations, meet your goals, don’t be a funless slacker, and keep washing your hands.