My roommate has two cats, Gus and Sam. They’re cute little buggers, but I put on my favorite cardigan this morning only to find that someone had been clawing on it.
I know these look like mothholes, but they also got the belt of my trenchcoat with clear claw-and-bite marks, so I’m pretty sure it’s one of them. Damn it, this is why I don’t want children.
I sometimes find myself conflicted about the way crafters talk about mending on the Internet–namely that it’s, like, their favorite thing to do and they find needleweaving tartan patterns in silk to cover that hole in their jeans a fulfilling and spiritual experience. I may be exaggerating for effect here, and it’s not that I think the ability to needleweave tartan to cover a hole isn’t insanely cool, but it’s that homely-joys beatification that suffuses blogposts about mending things. Maybe some people do feel that way about the humble darning egg, but I never seem to see the other side of mending expressed on the Internet.
The fact is, personally speaking? Mending sucks ass. It’s tedious. My back cramps when I’m hunched over concentrating on it. There’s the pressure to do it as invisibly as possible and the knowledge that even if you fix it nicely enough that other people won’t notice at a glance, you’ll know that it’s there.
I’m a product knitter. I derive pleasure and comfort from knitting, but my primary goal is to create a beautiful, functional garment that I’ll wear and enjoy for many years to come. I tend not to knit just to knit. Even if I were on a desert island and had no other yarn to knit with, I would never frog an FO to be able to re-knit it. (I believe this is how Yarn Harlot describes process knitters in one of her books.) To me, mending is a necessary evil, a roadbump on the way to garment rehabilitation.
But mend I shall, because that’s the only way my sweater will be wearable again. And there is, after all, something quite nice about a job well done.
The two holes are at the tips of the open scissorblades.
Reluctant menders of the world unite!