Crunch, crunch, crunch! Do you hear that, warren? That’s not just the sound of autumn leaves falling—it’s the days of your life being crumpled and decimated under the big, smelly feet of time. As the world turns bejeweled shades of ruby, topaz, and wine, it’s time to take stock of who you are and who you’ve failed to be yet again this year. That’s right: It’s time to fail to knit a glorious fall scarf!
The first step in every fall scarf knitting project is delusion. Not only do you have to believe you can make a scarf, you have to believe you can make the scarf before fall ends. This means, considering that you’ve never really learned to knit, you should have started in approximately January. Of last year. But that nagging realization isn’t going to stop you; there’s bonfires a-cracklin’ and apple cider mulling the air! You’re going to the yarn store, aren’t you? Yes, you are!
The yarn store, as we all know, is where the wheels come off your magical thinking wagon. There’s no section with a large sign that says “here is the scarf stuff,” so you immediately get lost. You know already, deep down, that your scarf project is doomed. There are 700 different types of kitting needles. Some are short. Some are long. A few are round for some fucking reason. You’ll buy those ones just in case. You will buy comically large ones the size of your entire arms, and you will buy wee ones intended for, perhaps, tiny mice to fail to make tiny mouse scarves.
And then there’s the yarn. You don’t want just a plain old scarf, of course. You want patterns! You want rainbows. You want your perfect fall scarf (which you will not make) to reflect that artsy personality you keep meaning to develop. Should you buy organic yarn? Of course, you should. Fair trade? Fair trade? Are you going to fail at knitting a scarf that uses child slave labor? Of course, you need the fair trade yarn. You will pay $92.
When it comes to actually knitting, though, you’ve got this sucker, right? I mean, there’s no one spending more time bingeing Netflix from their bed than you, and you might think this will provide you with ample opportunity for knitting, but you’ll rewind the sex scenes in Outlander 9-12 times, and who can hold needles during that? You’ve also got those long train rides to work, except you don’t, because you cannot fit four bundles of yarn and eight sets of needles into your fashionable fall mini-bag. Still, there’s those lazy fall Sunday afternoons, perfect for relaxing with a cup of tea and your knitting. Did I say “your knitting”? I meant “your hangover.” You can’t knit with a hangover. ‘Tis the season of pumpkintinis and running into your ex, after all.
But really, don’t get down on yourself. Honestly, it’s not as if failing to make a fall scarf is a complete and utter disaster. For a maximum of four days, you’re really going to devote at least 20 minutes to working on it! Knit one, purl two, knit one, purl two, 40 stitches a row, you’re on … 23. 27? Shit, better count them. And wait, you started out with these neat little tight stitches, and now they’re all giant and loopy. Dammit. You were supposed to start another color on the seventh row, and you forgot! Now the whole pattern will be wrong for the rest of the scarf. You better pull it apart and start over.
By the time November rolls over into the month of holiday cheer, you will have five inches of scarf you have redone six times. You will shove your yarn and your 15 needles into the same bag they arrived in. (Wait, where did that other one go? Oh, god, did the dog eat it? You should Google if that can kill a cocker spaniel. Just put down your knitting first.) They will be shoved into the hall closet where you keep your broken dreams, along with four identical bags from previous years.
At least you have Outlander.
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