Maybe it’s that I don’t like making decisions, but I’m still hemming and hawing over joining up with the 2500+ others in the Knitting Olympics. Tomorrow amongst the other things like cappucino drinking and motorcyclic shopping I will get to go to my LYS for the first time in several weeks. Because I like to torture myself, I plan on taking the pattern and yarn I’m considering as a maybe possible Olympic try. I don’t have needles that even vaguely resemble what the pattern calls for (I seem to have a drought in my needle collection when it comes to size 6 and size 7, and I certainly have neither size in a 24″ length circular needle), and I still need to swatch.

I think some part of me has decided it wants to take part; it just hasn’t convinced the rest of me yet.

In the coming weeks I will definitely need something to keep my hands busy at night after dinner because I have gone back to Weight Watchers. I went to my first meeting on Wednesday. I figure it worked last year (I lost something like 50 lbs, but gained 10 lbs back over the collective holidays), and I still have plenty to lose. Knitting keeps me from snacking.

In other knitting news, I get to take the afghan that I’m making for my mother down to Monterey on Sunday to work on while “watching” the Super Bowl… I really only tune in to see the commercials. Hopefully, I can finish it while I’m down there so it doesn’t have to come home with me again, and so my mother will stop asking why I haven’t finished it yet.

In honor of Brigid’s Feast Day and as seen on many another blog (including Grace’s Poppies, who started it), a poem…

Miniver Cheevy

Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn,
   Grew lean while he assailed the seasons
He wept that he was ever born,
   And he had reasons.

Miniver loved the days of old
   When swords were bright and steeds were prancing;
The vision of a warrior bold
   Would send him dancing.

Miniver sighed for what was not,
   And dreamed, and rested from his labors;
He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot,
   And Priam’s neighbors.

Miniver mourned the ripe renown
   That made so many a name so fragrant;
He mourned Romance, now on the town,
   And Art, a vagrant.

Miniver loved the Medici,
   Albeit he had never seen one;
He would have sinned incessantly
   Could he have been one.

Miniver cursed the commonplace
   And eyed a khaki suit with loathing:
He missed the medieval grace
   Of iron clothing.

Miniver scorned the gold he sought,
   But sore annoyed was he without it;
Miniver thought, and thought, and thought,
   And thought about it.

Miniver Cheevy, born too late,
   Scratched his head and kept on thinking;
Miniver coughed, and called it fate,
   And kept on drinking.

   — Edwin Arlington Robinson