Published On: February 19, 2010

Things seemed to be going well.  Really they did.  It was a new (to me at least) way to make a gusset and it seemed to be going off without a hitch.  I finished the first Greenhorn and grafted the toes.  It was the prettiest and least fussy graft ever.  I should have known something was up.  I soaked it, blocked it, and hung it to dry.  I had tried it on several times during its construction, and had no reason to think anything was wrong.

But there was.

It pulled, just a little bit, right across the point where my leg turns and becomes my foot.  Just a bit.  Just a little tiny bit.  Just enough to be maddening.  I could wear it.  But I knew I wouldn’t.  I held it.  Stared at it.  I tried it on again.  It was still just the tiniest smidgen too small.  I swore with an enthusiasm and verve not usually heard except in the presence of eighteenth century pirates.  I tried it on one more time.  It was still too small.

So I ripped.

Actually, I picked out the lovely graft and tried to convince The Boy to pull the end.  I wanted someone else to do it so as to spare me the heartbreak.  He (likely wisely) declined this rare opportunity for authorized knitwear destruction.  His protestations were most amusing.  Eventually I succumbed and ripped it myself – all the way back to the gusset.

I added four rounds (and thus four more gusset stitches) and am now most of the way back to the toes.  I’ll end up with a much better final product (ya know, one I’ll actually wear as opposed to one I’ll let languish at the bottom of the sock basket), but I still feel the tiniest bit slighted.  It will likely pass once the pair is done and in the rotation, but for now, I am not amused.

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