Posted on September 25, 2004 at 4:32 pm

Maybe you’ll understand.

Last week, I spent all of my waking moments in anticipation of Friday evening. I had been invited to a spinning group. This was particularly exciting because I have been doing the little bit of spinning that I have been able to manage so far in isolation. I have managed two afternoon sessions with spinning friends since I picked it up as a fiber hobby last spring. .Img_1638
But this was going to be a whole room full of people spinning! I was looking forward to having a group of experienced spinners give me feedback on my little yarn I’m making here. I don’t know what to do with it yet, but I want to make sure it turns out to be usable
I had directions and a map, all of my stuff piled into the car, and at quarter after seven, I was out of the driveway just buzzing like too much coffee from my excitement. I found the exit okay, I negotiated the crazy traffic and made it past the blinding neon of a muscular commercial strip, and found myself in the quiet dark of New Hampshire secondary roads. I drove. I checked the directions. I drove some more, waiting for the right intersection. I drove. I passed the intersection, I looked for the sign I was warned comes suddenly. I looked and I drove. I drove. I came to a town that wasn’t on the directions. I turned around and drove some more. I saw no sign. I saw no indication of the town I was supposed to be heading for. I came to that intersection again. I stopped and checked the directions again. I turned around. I came back to that town that wasn’t on the directions. I looked at the clock. I had been driving for an hour and a half, and the spinning meeting would be ending in half an hour. I read the directions again, and there. . . there at the very beginning of the paragraph (that I missed long ago in the neon-punched dark) was my mistake. I had been on the wrong secondary road. I was supposed to be on another road that–check the map–went northeast instead of northwest. I was probably another thirty minutes away from Valhalla.

There’s only one thing to do in a situation like this.

Cry.
and that’s what I did, all the way home. Road-blearing tears of frustration and self-pity. I never get to do anything fun anymore. I could have gone to see Garden State. I could have been at the gym. I could have been at spinning if I only knew how to read. Everybody hates me. I suck. You know the drill, right? The automatic lane at the toll booth was closed, so I had to hand my tokens to this big burly toll-taker face to face and he looked at me with such pathos. I hate it when I am in my car having a good self-indulgent wallowing in my stupidity bawl, and someone catches me at it. So I got home, dried my tears, took over for my husband, and put the boy to bed. I wish I could say that I set up my wheel and spun anyway, but I didn’t. My heart just wasn’t in it. I know that’s what Yarn Harlot would do. But that’s why she’s Harlot, and I’m just me.

I promise: something cheery next time.

*What Would Yarn Harlot Do?