Yesterday, I thought I had lost a dear friend. And by lost, I mean misplaced, though possibly permanently, and by dear friend I mean my red plastic knitting counter.
The sentiment is there though. I went to pull it out of my bag, and it wasn't there. It wasn't on the table. It wasn't anywhere.
I started to panic. Had it been placed somewhere completely nonsensical and hidden while we were cleaning the apartment this weekend, so that it wouldn't surface for months? Even worse, had it fallen from my bag when I paid for coffee on Sunday afternoon? Would I have to get a new counter?!?!?!?
As much as it made me feel ridiculous, I did not want a new counter. I liked that counter. It was red and jolly, and it kept track of rows and rounds in a way my distractable brain cannot. It was my little knitting buddy. I know I shouldn't form such strong sentimental attachments to inanimate objects, especially since with me this takes the form of strong anthropomorphizing. (I frequently apologize to the apples not chosen to go in my bag at the market.) But it is who I am. I am a person who thinks of the plastic clicking thing that counts her knitting rows as a friend. It's stupid, but it does no one harm but me. And I wanted my little red plastic buddy back. Also, I was starting lace repeats and making notes on paper to keep track slows me down.
Anyhow, I was starting to get extremely sentimental about those little things that we don't realize are so important to us until it's too late, when I found the counter shoved deep in my sofa.
I'm glad you're back, little friend.
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