I knit, therefore I am.

A soprano takes the stage. She is petite, gamin like with her short dark hair, very French looking. She wears a black gown besprinkled with sparkly bits that look like stars. She smiles and talks to the audience about the pieces she sings, German Lieder in the first half, French mélodies in the second. When she sings, she holds her listeners spellbound with her expression. They give her a standing ovation and she comes back with two encores.

I just got home from this concert. I have a headache which has been bugging me all day, and it’s still bugging me. While Hubby admitted he had a nice snooze during the recital, I unfortunately was kept awake by some soprano singing. I promised I would not complain, though, so I won’t, even though I have much I would say. Only one thing shall I be nasty about, and it has nothing to do with the singing. The woman performing is slightly younger than I am, although up close she looks older. She also has lost her girlish figure to some degree, and the dress she wore, while it looked really pretty sparkling under the lights, did nothing for her. Nada.

Earlier today I lunched with my newest new friend, the biology professor who has recently taken up knitting. I brought my handiwork to the Java where we sat and chatted. She got to watch me rip a substantial piece of knitting back to nubbins because I had started it on the wrong size needles. That was actually quite cathartic. Almost a full skein of yarn was reduced to a wound ball and I started all over again. I feel like Odysseus’ Penelope, weaving her tapestry by day, undoing it by night.

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