Comfort Where We Can…

So, the state of the world right now… 

Don’t get me started. 

But there I was, last week, pondering on it all, when I went to Michael’s and came back with yarn.  And felt stupid. And then Mate said something about more yarn. And I felt defensive. And then I went online to Michael’s– and remember, all, I have SO MUCH YARN my acronym is S.A.B.L.E.– Stash Accrued Beyond Life Expectancy– so this is unforgivable. 

But there was a sale.

A gorgeous sale. 

80/20 YarnCakes for $4.99 a cake.

And… and the world sucked. And I couldn’t knit or crochet fast enough to fix it. But there’s so much potential in each cheap giant yarn cake. And… and… and…

And then unlike, say, medicine or checks or car registration for the entire rest of the world due to Republican cruelty, THIS PACKAGE, of all the necessary packages on the planet, THIS PACKAGE, arrived promptly. Before its scheduled date, even. 

Shame on the hoof.

And I just couldn’t open it.

“What’s that?” Mate asked. 

“A box,” I said.

“Where’s the box from–oh!”

“Can’t miss that,” I tell him. The logo is EMBLAZONED on the side of the giant box.

“Nope. That’s, an, uh, large box.”

“It’s enormous.” I literally have no words.

“So, are you going to open it?”

Now, my living room is in shambles. We’re still trying to empty ZoomBoy’s room so we can move all this other crap into it, and my yarn corner–which I clean up every so often is as in need of a trim as I am–or Mate for that matter. The thought of opening this box and organizing my yarn around the contents therein makes me want to cry.

“Nope.”

“It’s almost like you’re ashamed of that box.”

Well, I had this coming. I look him in the eyes. “Could be.”

“That’s fair.” He thinks carefully, knowing that revenge-by-retail is a habit I’ve been valiantly trying (and mostly succeeding) to break over the last two years.

“Any, uh, reason for that box?”

“I broke.” I mean, gotta face this shit head on, but the fact was, he had every right to say something the FIRST time I overbought yarn. Yes, he pissed me off, but I obviously have a problem.

“Gotcha.” He breathes in through his nose, and then makes a wise man’s decision. “Are you going to open it?”

“After we get the living room back.”

“That’s probably a good idea.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, looking at the giant cardboard monument to my shame propped up in a corner of the kitchen.

“Me too,” he says. 

There’s a hug at the end of this.

The box is going to sit there until the living room is clean. And, unspoken between us, that’s probably the last time I’m going to buy yarn for quite some time.