I suppose that there will be a time when someone feels the need to write you a lengthy email about your crappy design. Or that there will be a time when you go pick up your daughter at the kid's club, see a cute little boy and tell the worker how cute you think he is and she hisses back, eyes darting here and there, "Him? What, are you kidding? He just bit that little baby over there. And his vocabulary? I don't know what his parents say around him, but he could rip you a new one in three words flat, I tell you what. Half of the things he says, I don't want to know what they mean. That kid? He's no cutey; what are you thinking?...Good thing I'm the manager, because the second I see his dad bring him up to the counter there, I tell the gals I have the runs and I'm in the bathroom until he leaves."
Okay. So he's not a cutey. And some of the things I've designed, and some of the things I've knitted haven't been so great, either. We all do it. We knit to a different drummer or we just lose our minds for about a month and turn out some hunk of junk the likes of which we haven't seen before or want to be reminded of.
To be honest, my most favorite thing I've ever knitted is that Italian Intruder Shawl, you know, Elann.com cotton, cast on three stitches, turn, knit one, yarn over, knit to end. Turn. Knit one, yarnover, knit to end. Repeat for ever and ever. Or maybe a pair of socks.
What is it about knitting? What is it that sometimes simple is okay, but in other circles it just isn't?
Edited to Add: Nadine, one of my readers, just sent me a reminder to tell me where the picture of the Italian Intruder Shawl was, after all. I looked and looked and looked this morning and couldn't find it. You'd think I would, because it appeared in a post titled, "That's Why They Make Those Nasty Shawl Pins"... (Note bulging belly and how you'd barely notice it what, with those fancy shoes and all.)