The post-post

I’ve been trying to get back into the swing this week. It’s been a bit tough, to be honest. I’m transcribing the 18 interviews I had for my thesis project right before I left for Denmark. They’re fun kids, but all the interviews are in Dutch and all the kids have thick accents. Coupled with the facts that they talk really fast and that I’m still not very proficient at Dutch, it takes almost two hours to transcribe one 15 minute interview. Whew!

I’m all sorts of tired – mentally, physically, emotionally. My procrastination skills have improved magnificently. I’ve watched copious amounts of 30 Rock and The Mentalist, I’m eating and eating and eating (no wonder my pants are feeling snug – again…), I’m surfing on Ravelry like there’s no tomorrow, and I managed to finish my Whippoorwill. It’s gorgeous, by the way, and blocking as I blog. Hopefully pictures within the next couple of days.

In other news, Mark and I have started looking for an apartment. It’s a little scary but also very, very exciting. The thought of going shopping for new furniture, having my own kitchen and bathroom (alright, sharing it with Mark, but still), putting up pictures, buying new bed linen… It makes me all giddy inside. I miss having my own place so badly. My little room is so cozy, but I hate this nasty, nasty green carpet that doesn’t look like it’s been cleaned since… ever, the red, dingy curtains, and the blue-gray wooden walls. All the furniture is cheap and uncomfortable. The only thing I like about this room is the view – and I’m now disregarding the fact that every neighbor and their dog can see everything I’m doing, at all times.

Yarn from Holst Garn. The dark blue is the Supersoft 100% wool in “Eclipse”, and the yellow is the new Coast in “Aconite”, 55% lambswool and 45% cotton. I did something I’ve never done before – I washed the Supersoft in the washing machine before knitting it. Put the balls in their own separate sock and tossed it in the washer. I was so nervous about felting that I considered eating my lunch in front of the washing machine – not sure what that would’ve accomplished since the yarn was inside the socks anyway. But it turned out just fine, and I’m considering doing that with the other balls of Supersoft I have, in a lovely pink colour I meant to use for Audrey in Unst (but obviously never got around to).

I also got the idea that I would knit a sweater for when we go to Glasgow this summer. A nice cosy one to wear under my coat when we go hiking, since it’s bound to be chilly (and possibly damp – it IS Scotland). I initially picked Tinder by Jared Flood from his Fall 2011 collection. I paid for the pattern and everything, was just about to get started when I realised… it’s not seamless. I was so certain it was seamless. I don’t know how I missed it; it’s got the “seamed” tag on Ravelry and everything. I suppose it would be quite easy to transform it to a seamless cardigan, but my mind is barely coherent enough to pick out matching AND clean clothes these days, let alone do maths. So I guess I’ll have to find another pattern. Shame, because I really like this one. Another time, maybe. I really should learn how to seam…

We’ll all float on alright

I’ve tried over and over to write this post. I always come up short. I don’t know what to say.

Grandma passed away a couple of weeks ago. Despite my family’s determined effort to be with her when she slipped away, she passed away peacefully in her sleep at 1 in the morning on a Friday. I think it pissed off certain family members to no end. I just think grandma wanted to do it her own damn way. She’d settled everything else – which songs to sing at the church, the colour of her casket, which minister would be sending her off, where to have the “reception” (what do you call it?) afterwards, and what we’d eat. There was a lot of cake. And a lot of people.

The funeral was beautiful. As beautiful as those days can be, anyway. Lots of people. Lots of flowers. Lots of sunlight. I had an ice cream at a gas station before we got to the chapel. No one told me grandma would be in there, with the lid off. I almost passed out, and I didn’t go in. Some thought I was “doing it wrong” and that I’d regret it. I don’t. Whoever was in the casket in there, it wasn’t grandma. I don’t understand the need to see dead people. But people’s boats float differently. I’d rather remember her winks and tuneless whistling and her stories about how the animals got their colours. To each their own.

We were never close. At first I was sad, but then I realise that’s just how life played out, and the time I got with her was still special, if sparse. My cousin got more vacations at the farm than I (and my brother) did, because she’s almost 10 years older. And then we went to Africa and lost more years. And it’s been long that grandma gradually declined. Family is complicated. It’s funny that death reveals just how complicated. It’s stupid, really. All those secrets that everyone knows but no one ever talks about. Seriously, what a cooky family. But I like them all anyway, even if they don’t like each other.

Now I’m back in Holland. I’m behind on work, and I’m sick of my thesis. On the other hand I can’t wait to finish it so I can get on with my life. And then I get sick of thinking about what on earth I’m supposed to do after I graduate. Honestly, I plan on spending this summer travelling, getting tattooed, sitting in a lawn chair with a drink and spending time with the people I love the most. There are weddings, family parties, reunions with old friends, revisiting Scotland, promises of breath-taking scenery and good music. I want to go hiking, I want to eat, I want to try my hand at making lemon infused vodka, and maybe I’ll buy a bodhran; I’ve always wanted to play the drums.

Spring. And death. And possibilities. And Life. I don’t know. We all float on alright.

No news is good news?

The sun has been out a lot these past couple of days. Somehow the smell and feeling of spring make things easier to deal with. I fell upon a Danish song called “Dear Grandma, Thou Who Art in Herlev” which has the right amount of whimsy and sadness for what I’m feeling right now. It’s a bit silly, but I typed out the lyrics in English. They don’t rhyme, and they don’t fit the beat of the song, but I thought they were nice. I’ve realised there are so many things I don’t know about my grandma, and I probably won’t ever know them. Like what she wanted to be when she grew up, and if she was happy on the farm they had. Did she enjoy gardening? Would she have liked more children? Did she have any regrets?

There’s no news from back home, but I assume that no news is good news.

On the bright side, my supervisor seems convinced my thesis is almost done. I have the conclusion, he said, now I just have to fill in the parts inbetween. Like the literature review, the methodology, the results and the discussion. Easy peasy!

And thanks to those who have commented and/or e-mailed. It helps. There’s probably going to be a few more grandma posts. I’m still knitting, and it’s a lovely spring green. Next time, maybe.

I’m sitting here cleaning out your wardrobe, which I know you’ve opened for the last time
Now it’s standing there, its doors gaping while your radio plays a song
And I cry a little while I make my way through it with “If you don’t know me by now”
Because I now understand that I don’t know you, and that I never ever will

I only know you made an amazing pheasant, though mum always thought it was dry
And I know that if this was a novel I’d get the chance to ask:

Dear grandma, did you see all the things you wanted?
Did you do all that you could?
Were you overall satisfied, where were you in ’69?
Was there a lot of xenophobia? What was WW II like?
Would you say that you were happy?

And while I sit here looking at all the odd stuff that has lived here with you for a thousand years,
I’m puzzled by the entanglements of families and by time’s passing
And then I wonder if you weren’t ever scared in this big old house
If you would’ve liked my songs, and if you knew you had mice

Dear grandma, did you kiss the ones you wanted?
What was my dad like when he was little?
Were you crazy in love with my grandpa, what would you say if you could see him now?
Do you remember if you liked his friends?
Were you happy on Kongevej?

Dear grandma, thou who art in Herlev
Where is your mind, where did you leave it?
Dear grandma, thou who art in Herlev
I really would’ve liked to get to know you
Dear grandma, thou who art in Herlev

Dear grandma, I just want you to enjoy the time you have left
I know you don’t understand much of what’s going on right now
But I hear you’ve joined the choir, and that you can’t remember where you live
But the staff takes good care of you, it’s going as well as it can

Cross-post: Grandma

(This entry was also posted on my Univers blog column. I got an e-mail yesterday that my maternal grandma is in the hospital, and it’s not looking well. Maybe. It seems to be up and down. It sucks major donkey butt to be stuck in some other country, only being able to get news by e-mail and text messages. It sucks even more donkey butt to have a dysfunctional family where no one speaks to one another except a few key people, creating more distance between each other because the peripheral people (like me and my brother) have no clue how to behave or what to say. I don’t know. The entry below is all I can say right now without pitching a major fit. I’ll return once things have… I don’t know. When they’ve become something.)

I’ve written previously about how it can be difficult to be away from your family as an exchange or international student. Mostly it’s the little things you miss, like your dad’s lame jokes (also just referred to as “dad jokes”), your mum’s cooking and your sibling’s complete lack of interest in what’s going on in your life (or anyone’s life, for that matter, unless it can be conveyed by text message). But regardless of how far you move away, you’ll still have to be without those things in your everyday life, and it gets easier after a little while. And being an exchange student is often fun and pretty care-free (even if you are a busy, boring Master’s student) – all you have to worry about is if you’ll make the deadline for that silly paper, and if you remembered to buy milk for the soup you wanted to make.

The feeling of being far from home returns when there are troubles within the family back home, such as arguments or break-ups or illness. My grandmother is in the hospital right now, for the second time within a year. Or maybe it’s the third time; I’ve lost track, time seems to be going by so fast. She hasn’t been doing very well for a while now. Everyone’s going to see her this weekend, but I can’t go.

What do you do when you’re stuck abroad in situations like this? We all tell each other that we’ll wait and see; maybe she’ll be sent back home on Tuesday like the doctors said and life will carry on. But if she doesn’t get to go home, if her heart decides it’s done its job now, then what? My brother has gone off to Thailand this morning and won’t be back until mid-April. I know he’s been looking forward to, and planning for, this trip for months now (despite not telling anyone he planned on going). It’ll be his last chance to go on a crazy trip with one of his best friends before he starts university and has to be a “serious” student with the mandatory student debt. I want him to go off and have a good time and not worry about grandma. But I also don’t want to worry about grandma when I’ve got the flu and am getting ready for the largest and most important part of my thesis project. I don’t want to worry about booking a last-minute, over-priced ticket home and facing something dreadful.

It’s selfish. The only thing I want to worry about is whether my brother will catch the Japanese meningitis his friend is so worried about (in Thailand?), and what to get my boyfriend for his 25th birthday, and whether this flu will ever, ever go away or if I’ll be breathing out of one nostril for the rest of my life. I knew grandma was ill for a long time; I knew there might be a risk that she would get worse while I was away. I just didn’t think it would actually happen.

Life carries on regardless. I know that. It’s a difficult subject, is death, and it’s not something that is discussed often in everyday conversations. Not until it comes close, and then it becomes an even more touchy and upsetting subject. I don’t know. This is my first grandparent (out of 6; we have a weird family) that is close to… not being here anymore. It’ll happen at some point, I know that too, but I just don’t want it to be right now. How did all this time go by so fast?

I was abroad when a close friend was going through major boyfriend issues and needed a Bridget Jones night with too much wine. I was abroad when my brother broke up with his girlfriend (and wanted advice on when he could start dating again). And now I’m abroad when my grandma’s ill. I used to crave going out on an adventure, away from home, but now I’m not so sure anymore.

But that’s what adult life is about, I suppose – making decisions and accepting the consequences. Such as not being able to get drunk on cheap white wine and belt out a horrible version of “I’m Every Woman”, or tell your brother that sexting a co-worker is extremely inappropriate, or holding your grandma’s hand when she’s not feeling well and maybe asking her all those questions you thought you’d have plenty of time to ask her.

Lighter days, busy days

It has again been a really busy couple of weeks here in Tilburg. My thesis project collapsed on me due to lack of participants, leading to bouts of stress and frustrated tears and panic – what if I have to extend my thesis process, it will cost a lot more money, I won’t have a place to live, I can’t get more funding from the government, and who knows if I’ll even find someone to work with….?

Thankfully, I have an awesome MIL who took matters into her own hands after a tentative text message from my end. She works as a teacher, and over the course of two days she set up a collaboration for me ahead of many other (unfortunate) academics. It’s a giant relief, but it also means that I won’t be going back to Denmark as I had planned over March/April. On one hand I’m happy, because this new project is much more interesting; I think I have a genuine shot at writing something really good, and practically it’s also much easier to stay in my little room instead of living out of a suitcase with my mother(!) for two months. My entire social life is here, and I won’t have to miss out on bellydance or Dutch lessons, and I can keep up with our social projects committee, which I’m chairing.

On the other hand, I was looking forward to visiting my family. My brother is off to Thailand for about a month – I found out on Facebook – and was set to leave a few days after my planned arrival. I also won’t get to see the friends I had planned to see. I hope I can change my ticket (soon; I was set to leave Friday the 2nd) so I can at least make it home for my friend’s 25th birthday (I have reason to suspect she will kill me if I don’t). It’s a big deal in Denmark, turning 25. People pin you down and stuff cinnamon into your face and your underwear. You’ll be constantly itchy and smell like Christmas for weeks. It gets everywhere. It’s really fun (for the spectators). Since I’m staying, we get to celebrate Mark’s 25th birthday too – he claims that since we are in the Netherlands, the cinnamon tradition isn’t valid. I beg to differ.

I started a Whippoorwill. I’m still on the first section, it comes along slowly when I take writing breaks to watch 30 Rock. The yarn is Madeline Tosh Merino Light in “Filigree”. I bought it on our school trip to California in 2010. It’s very soft and beautiful; I’m especially fond of the little flashes of blue here and there. I love working with semi-solid/slightly variegated yarns – you never know what’ll come next!

My only gripe with the pattern is the YO’s. I don’t understand why having a YOB (wrapping the yarn the “wrong” way) is a good thing to have before a knit stitch. In my experience, it makes the hole smaller. I use it in front of purl stitches instead, as a regular YO before purl stitches makes a larger hole. I don’t know. Maybe I’m getting it wrong, but it’s meant to be fun and I like doing it this way. It’s still pretty.

The days are getting longer and lighter. I’m doing my yoga again every morning (~25 minutes of stretching to a specific program). It’s more fun to bike places, even if the wind has picked up. The sun is heating my room, making it almost tropical. Life seems easier when the sun is coming around again – I get the SADs, so I’m really happy it’s wearing off. I still need to buy new shorts that I can fit my big butt into. We joke about it now; at least there’s more thigh to tattoo than previously. That can’t be a bad thing. There are plenty of things to look forward to – this morning we booked our tickets to Glasgow. We’ll be going on a 8-day road-trip, me and Mark, our mutual friend (who brought us together) and his girlfriend, and two other friends. I’m so tickled to go back and see Scotland through new eyes.

Popping blues and greens and golds. Mark will be going to Chicago in the end of March and has promised to bring home whatever I have shipped to the hotel. I’m going to get yarn (obviously). What should I get?

Ding dong, the socks are done

I finally finished Mark’s socks this weekend. They were knit with love, spite and sheer determination. But mostly love. (Yes, he did object a bit to having to sit so awkwardly with his feet on the chair. It was taken early Monday morning before I took the train back to Tilburg, so the light was a bit wonky.)

Pattern: Hug Me Socks by Terry Morris [rav]
Yarn: Madeline Tosh Sock in Fjord (83 grams/ ~264 metres) and Lana Grossa Meilenweit 100 Tweed in white 106 (21 grams/ ~88 metres)
Needles: 2.25 mm. Knit Picks DPNs
Modifications: Changed the toe and heel to a sturdier yarn, otherwise none

Cast on: October 9th, 2011
Cast off: February 5th, 2012 Let’s pretend it didn’t almost take me five months to finish these. I got severe second sock syndrome; the pattern was dull and the socks are huge. Mark wears a European size 44, so that’s a fair bit of knitting. But he loves them, which is the most important thing, and he thinks they are soft and comfortable. I told him that if he wears a hole in them any time soon, I will do unspeakable things to him – and not in the kinky way.

We’ve had lots of snow here this past week, meaning that the entire Dutch infrastructure has broken down. I don’t understand; we have far more snow in Denmark, but the country doesn’t stop. It slows down a bit, but it doesn’t come to a grinding halt. It took me 3 hours last Friday to get from Tilburg to Leiden, a trip that normally takes half the time. Train upon train was cancelled, and there was no guessing whether your’s would be next. I’ve been missing the snow and the cold, but it’s definitely a different experience than in Denmark. My bike is unstable and the tires are thin and worn, compared to my bike at home which has thick, patterned tires. The bike paths haven’t been cleared, and neither have half the roads. At the first sight of flakes, it seems the Danish trucks and sweepers are out in the streets, salting and removing snow. Hmm… That long strip in the middle is actually a frozen channel. Within minutes of taking this picture, it was full of children and adults on skates, sweeping away the snow so they could skate back and forth, back and forth. They continued until well after the sun had set. It was nice to watch; I’m not really into skating myself but it was fun to watch the youngest children walk around like Bambi on their skates.

After the horrible socks of doom have come off the needles, I feel free to cast on something new. I don’t know what and I don’t have time to figure it out right now – I’m finishing up my thesis proposal which is due tomorrow at noon, and my superviser has apparently gone on vacation and forgotten to comment on my final draft I sent him over the weekend. Academic life is always exciting here! I’m going to pick something from this shelf. Something colourful, I think, and soft and fun. I need it.

An update – mostly on weight

I can’t believe it’s been so long ago since I updated this blog. I admit this is mostly due to the fact that there has been very, very little knitting. Perhaps I should acknowledge that this is becoming less a knitting blog, and more just about life. Which is totally okay, since it’s my blog. I just forget that, from time to time.

I’ve also been considering the stuff I put online. Personal stuff, you know? What if an employer finds it, what if a co-worker finds it… Ultimately I don’t put anything on here that I wouldn’t tell someone while looking them straight in the eye, but perhaps a future employer doesn’t need to know straight off the bat that I’ve been in therapy. Twice. Or that I have an (un)healthy obsession with all things woollen and/or chocolate. It’s easy to find because I’ve been using the same username since… the mid-2000′s. It ain’t that hard. But then, creating an alter-ego seems like a lot of work and self-defeating. Why talk about who you are if you can’t talk about who you are? If you get my drift? (Fortunately no one will ever know the depths my Lord of the Rings obsession went to. It’s better if the world forgets how I wanted to marry Billy Boyd and wanted the hobbit cast to be my friends everything.)

Also, I’ve been blogging for my university’s unofficial webzine/magazine, which has satisfied my blogging needs. It’s just once a week, about whatever topic comes to mind, but there are certain things I can’t talk about, like how pissed I get when I read Hollaback! blogs (politics), or how I got really excited because I got Madeline Tosh yarn (not relevant), or how life has been really, radically up-and-down these past couple of months (too personal). Or how weird I feel that I’ve gained at least 7 kilos since the beginning of 2010, the spring I went on exchange in Glasgow (TMI).

Dudes. Can we talk about that for a minute? I’ve gained weight. Anyone who’s seen me in real life, or just in pictures, will know that I’ve always been petite. Scratch that, I’m skinny. My mum’s side is full of tall, skinny women. My dad’s side is full of short, round women. I got short and skinny. I finally came to terms with that a few years ago, after accepting that I will never gain weight and that, while I have a nice waist-to-hip ratio, I will never have more junk in the trunk than this. I’ll never look like Selma Hayek or that old high school classmate of mine, who have a little extra oomph all round (from my perspective – please bear in mind most people can almost reach around my upper arm with thumb and index finger. My frame of reference is really skewed). I always thought round thighs, round butts, etc. are so beautiful. I guess most women have that, but not me, which is of course why I wanted to look like them. We always want what we don’t have, and think the [insert physical trait here] girls have it so much easier.

And now… I’ve gained weight. I’ve gone up at least two pant sizes since Glasgow. I can’t fit half my jeans anymore. And forget about those cute shorts I bought in Glasgow; those will only make my thighs bulge out of the opening and give me an awful muffin top. They are history. It took me a while to actually see the change physically (in more than too-small pants, I mean). Even Mark sees it now, though I wonder if he just didn’t mention anything because he was afraid I’d be offended.

It’s… I kinda like it. Honest truth. I finally got what I always wanted, just a little extra oomph. But now my pants don’t fit, and I have to wonder… why now? Why all of a sudden does my metabolism on speed decide to go at a more leisurely pace? Am I eating differently? Did my body change? Is it an outside influence, like new birth control? Because I don’t feel I’m eating that differently; I’m definitely getting more exercise than I used to (I bike every day now, and go to bellydance once a week); and I started gaining weight before starting new birth control. Okay, so maybe I’m eating a little more chocolate and donuts since I moved to Holland. It’s so much cheaper than in Denmark, and they have actual donuts. But shouldn’t all the extra exercise make up for that? I actually think I’m drinking less than I did before, since I don’t go out as much as I used to (serious student now, yo). I don’t know.

But really. I quite like it. There ain’t no joy in being so skinny you’re afraid you’ll blow away when it’s windy out, or that people look at you weird when you eat (I’ve had several people think I have an eating disorder). Or that clothes don’t fit right, especially in the top. Some over-sized things look ridiculous on me. Don’t even get me started on ankle boots; they make me look like I’ve stepped into a bucket. Many girls often thought I was happy because I was skinny, like a supermodel (just needed those extra 4″ though), which is like expecting someone to be happy because they have symmetrical boobs, or long legs, or fingernails all the same shape. But I was fine with it, eventually. I started not feeling so hurt when I read about “real” women who had “real” curves and “real” bodies, and that men only wanted these “real” women – because that meant I was “unreal”, and who’d want me then? I started accepting the hand (or curves) I’d been dealt. I loved my body. I love this new one too. Mark loves me either way, which is a huge plus.

It’s just strange that something that took me years to accept and love has changed into something else. I admit that I was a bit miffed at first that half my clothes don’t fit anymore. All those cute dresses, all those pants, all those shorts… I’ll never wear that polkadot strapless poofy-skirted dress again. It’ll burst at the seams if I breathe too deeply. If I can even close it anymore, that is. I regret not wearing it more often, like to the supermarket. (I bet I’d have felt better shopping for tampons, chocolate and painkillers if I wore a dress like that, instead of sweatpants and a hoodie.) Oh well.

Now I just have to figure out what size I am. Which infuriates me – clothes shopping was difficult enough before, but at least I was never in doubt what size I was. Now… it’s anyone’s guess. I need a new bra fitting too; the sizes here in Holland are way different from the ones in Denmark. From the same brands. Which makes no sense. Can we talk about that some other time?

(Thanks to those who’ve been prodding me to blog again, including (Not That) Joan who commented today and told me to come back. It was the kick in the pants I needed.)

Today’s walk

I did it. I went for a walk today.

I gathered up all our empty glass jars and bottles from the kitchen cabinets to take them to the recycling bin – I figured it was a good reason to get me out of the house and into some fresh air for a few minutes. After dropping off all the bottles (I felt like a bit of a boozer, even if my only contribution to the collection had once contained orange juice), I decided to keep walking around, just to explore the neighbourhood.

I picked a street at random. I kicked up the leaves as I walked, lifted my face to the breeze – the freezing chill is lurking around the corner, I know it, but today was still mild – sniffing the air. Somewhere, someone was barbequeing (which seems rather odd in November, but oh well). Somewhere, a father was wrangling a very upset child. Somewhere, someone had dropped a receipt and some blue, delicate wrapping paper with golden stars on it. I said hi to the old drunk tottering down the street; him and a young man walking his dog were the only people I saw until I hit one of the main streets. It’s Sunday. Everything’s quiet.

When I first came to the Netherlands, my complaint was that all the houses looked the same. It was rows and rows of townhouses that, while cute, made it impossible for me to remember which part of town I was in. And how boring it must be, living in a house indistinguishable from the hundreds of other cookie-cutter houses.

But today, while walking, I noticed that they don’t look alike at all. Some are red brick, some are yellow brick. Some are “traditional” townhouses, some are modern, square apartment blocks. Some have little, manicured gardens in front. Some open straight onto the sidewalk. Some have benches outside. And in some streets, it looked like the family who moved in first had a choice of doorways, and no one wanted one that looked like their neighbours’. There were white, blue, black, green, brown, red doors. They had ornate mailboxes or slots, they had stained glass windows, they had fancy doorbells, they had arches above the doorway, the had rosebushes crawling on either side, they had little plaster figures of the Virgin Mary and baby Jesus inlaid in the brick.

Another thing I noticed is that people display who they are and what they stand for through the big living room window sills. In Mark’s town, I’ve seen one window absolutely filled up with little (stylised) Native American busts, figurines and statues. There must be at least 20 in the window sill. Others have fancy white and blue China vases. Some have lots of plants, or a jersey representing their favourite sports team.

It’s amazing what you learn on a 20 minute walk. Now I just need some proper shoes – after a while I felt my knees starting to get sore, but I think that’s both due to the shoes and my pace. When I walk slowly, it puts more pressure on my knees. But it was nice. Now I just have to keep it up.

(P.S. The mittens I showed you yesterday? Frogged. Gauge was off. Will try again with smaller needles. It sucks big time, even more than having to frog the Mary Jane sweater. Poop!)

NaNo-wossname

I was a bit surprised and mystified by the increasing amount of posts in my blog feed a few days ago. I wondered what on earth had gotten into people – didn’t they know that it’s November, it’s getting more and more dark and miserable outside by the hour, and what could possibly be so interesting as to post every day?

… oh right. It’s November. Which means NaNoBloMo, or NaNoWriMo, or NaNoSweMo, or NaNoWTFMo, or whatever. It means people have much better self-discipline than me (and evidently, much more interesting lives) and write or blog or take pictures or run around in circles or whatever it is they do, and they’re doing it really well. At least it makes my days a bit more interesting, to read about what’s going on in other people’s at a much higher rate.

My yearly dose of SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) has finally come around. It’s later than usual; I suspect it’s either because I’m further south than last year (though not by much), or because I’ve been so busy lately that I didn’t notice I’d caught it again. I get so lazy and lethargic and “blah”. I know I should do something to get out of the house, improve my mood and get my energy levels up… but I just can’t be bothered. It’s an evil spiral.

I’m thinking of getting some sort of exercise routine. I have plenty of time every day to go for at least a half hour walk, or a long bike ride. Just to get some air. I should also do something to strengthen my back – I’ve had really bad back problems for years, but only recently decided I should do something about it. Now my back muscles seem all confused about this new state and can’t decide whether to be loose and stretchy or tight and cramped. I’m afraid they’ve gone rather manic on me, which results in even more discomfort and more frequent head aches. I’d go to a physiotherapist, but I’ve been to one of those before and I didn’t like it very much. Also, my new insurance doesn’t cover any sort of chiropractor, massage therapists, physiotherapy, etc. No “alternative” or physical treatments whatsoever. Even just trying to figure out which treatment would be a better option is tiring (not to mention expensive).

At least I’ve gotten my knitting mojo back (for now).

I started the Cotton Reel Mittens by Ysolda, from her Whimsical Knits 2. They’re puckering a bit, but I hope it’ll even out with blocking. I don’t mind much, though, because I think they’ve turned out a bit smaller than pattern specs, and I have small hands and (especially) wrists. It’s a fun knit, and it’s really whizzing along. Unfortunately it makes my back ache because my “old” knitting posture isn’t good for me anymore. Never was, really, but now it’s even worse.

*sigh* Knit and feel sore, or not knit and feel annoyed that you can’t knit?

One yay, one [explicit]

Spurred on by the kind, encouraging comments left on my last post (thank you!), I decided I might as well do another update, even if there aren’t any pretty pictures.

I just got my statistics exam results tonight, and I got an 8 (on a scale from 1 to 10, of which you need a 5.5 to pass). I am absolutely thrilled, and have decided that a little treat in form of yarny goodness and new clothes will be just the right thing (let’s face it, good exam results are as good an excuse as it being Tuesday, or raining outside, or what-have-you).

Aside from gifting myself, I also get to buy a plane ticket home for Christmas. I had decided I wouldn’t book a ticket until I knew whether or not I would have to do the re-sit. It’s not until the 11th of January, but it’s nice to know that I can go home whenever I please without having to worry about a re-sit. I’m really excited to go home for Christmas, I miss my family and my friends and I get to see them all during the couple of weeks I’ll be back home. I’m celebrating New Year’s Eve with my best friends as well, and I expect it will be legen-… wait for it… dary. ;)

The [explicit] nay for the day came just now when I realised the Mary Jane sweater I’ve been working on is… too big. The yarn was frogged from an almost complete Victoria Yoke pullover (that was too small), washed and dried to cast on for a new project, and this Mary Jane only needs two sleeves and a ribbed neckline… and it’s too big. It’s baggy. I knit a size small, against my better judgment (I’ve always been an extra-small), but it’s actually alright around the bust – it’s around my waist that it’s baggy. I look … lumpy.

If I wasn’t so euphoric about my statistics exam, I might cry a little out of frustration.

Since it looks like I’ll probably frog another sweater made out of this yarn, I think it’s wise to turn it into something else the third time around. I’m thinking a little lap blanket, or a capelet, or something similar. Just something to keep me warm. It’s no use being upset about it being too big – I knew that was a risk when I chose to knit a size small instead of extra-small. And really… in the scope of things, it’s not that big of a deal.

(Remind me I said that when I actually decide to frog the thing. This euphoria will wear off soon enough.)