A Delayed Sense of Accomplishment

When I was in college, there was a girl that lived in my hall that taught me to crochet. She was broke (what college student isn’t) and needed a cheap Christmas gift for family members. She taught me and my neighbors how. I made a few small things, then I was on the phone one night with a guy named Tony that someone thought would be a great match for me. He wasn’t, but while on the phone I started chain stitching for an afghan that I wanted to keep. That was in 1993.

Eight addresses, seventeen skeins of yarn, and fifteen years later, I have finished the afghan. It’s disproportionate, matches nothing in my house, and is ENORMOUSLY HUGE, but I have finished. Working on it only in the winter while watching a movie, having it sit in my mother’s closet for seven years at one point, none of it matters.

Most importantly, the thing I most looked forward to about this whole thing was that I was finally able to wash it.

But it is warm, it’s finished, and it is a beautiful thing in its ugliness. Isn’t it???

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