Posted on September 16, 2004 at 4:39 pm
For six years of my school life, I wore a uniform: Forest green tunic with a belt (that I wore as loosely and low-slung as possible), white shirt (preferably massively oversized and well-broken in, likely purchased for a quarter from the Sally Ann), New Brunswick Provincial tartan tie knotted in a four-in-hand (I preferred a double windsor myself, but it was tricky to get the ends lined up correctly to tuck into the top of the tunic), green sweater for blustery days (never regulation, see Sally Ann above), oxford shoes (penny loafers for me, I always conveniently lost one shoe in Horse Creek or had them out for re-soling) and green knee socks(always worn around the ankles).
Sounds like page out of The Official Preppy Handbook, doesn’t it? I am totally betraying my private school background here. I hope that if you decide to despise me, that it will be on my own merits, and not for a classist association with the ways of the Hamptons crowd. It was a terrible school. The only lesson I learned there was social Darwinism, but it wasn’t until Freshman year in college that I figured out that there was a name for it. So hate me for me if you must, not for the price of my lack of education.
But I digress: the critical detail of this not-so-uniform for the purpose of this post was the green tights we had to wear during the winter, the so called “long-greens”. We universally loathed them. They looked terrible; they fit badly; the season’s supply cost too much; they sagged quickly and smelled bad and put us generally in a surly mood. So it was with unmitigated delight that we met the last day of long greens with an unofficial ritual called “The Ripping of the Greens.” One never ripped one’s own greens; one ripped at other girls’ greens. This must have been a proto-erotic experience for our male counterparts, a kind of gleeful cat fight/strip tease as the entire female population of the school made at each others legs while screaming like a swarm of cicadas. However shredded one’s greens became, it was expected that every girl would wear their tatters with non-chalance for the remainder of the day, enduring tsks from staff and the evil eye of “Nursey” as she met us with her checkboard on our return to the dorm.
Why am I telling you this?
Because every 12 rows of Clapotis means I get to run a ladder of dropped stitches, and the undoing of stitches that I have made reminds me, every 12 rows, of that annual rite of my high school years. It’s not an unpleasant memory, just a weird one.
I’ve been interested to know what fellow-Clapotis knitters have chosen for their scarves. As you can see, I’ve been knitting in Koigu Kersti, which is curling ruthlessly.
Amanda is waiting for her Alchemy Syncronicity, and Shanti already has a couple of repeats under her belt.
Deb is thinking about some very special handpaint she has a lead on from a source I won’t divulge unless she tells me I can,
Kristina is using Classic Elite’s Waterspun Weekend, and there’s already progress on her blog,
AnnaMarie is looking for the Lorna’s called for by the pattern. If Kate says it’s the softest thing she’s ever knit with, then that’s good enough a recommendation. I too would be willing to bet the price of an internet transaction for an unfamiliar yarn on Kate’s word, but I’ve been looking for something to make out of Kersti, and this had to be it.
And Veronique is looking for something silk. . .
(and while Brynne has yet to choose her yarn, she is trying to give away some of her stash; check it out!)
Other options some people have suggested include Himalayan Wool and Silk, and Soy Silk Phoenix. I love this part, this choosing of yarn part. There’s no start date, so jump on in if you’re so inspired. I have a thread started in the Knitty Coffeeshop for troubleshooting and yarn help, should anyone need it. Keep me posted if you want me to link to your results.
Enjoy ripping those ladders, and think of me.