Yay socks. Yay scottie dogs. Yay scottie dog socks. For those of you thinking, ‘that’s it?!’ 1) rude and 2) I actually made two pairs. Well, technically, I made this pair once, unraveled it, and then knit it again. At two separate times while making these socks, I noticed how egregiously large and disproportionate they were and hoped that the combined power of prayer and blocking (mostly prayer) would be enough to fix my mistakes. Alas, the knitting gods did not look favorably upon me (likely due to my idolatrous relationship with the neighboring granola gods, who have showered me with an abundance of wheat germ), and the socks ended up all sorts of wrong. So, I tried again, this time with a little more thought and preparation before starting (along with an animal sacrifice), and out popped a perfect (well, almost) pair of two-toned scottie socks!
If you’re wondering what misshapen canine I based my pattern off of, let me direct you to the below x-ray:That’s right! This is my very first medically inspired knit! The scottie dog (which is legit enough to have its own wiki page) is identified on radiological images, and a break in its neck is indicative of a pars interarticularis fracture. BAM. medical knowledge. 8 months of medical school finally paid off.
Anyway, my initial plan was to have scottie dogs running all over the socks, but I hugely overestimated my fair-isle proficiency, so I knocked it down to one each and added a nice and easy contrast color toe.
Here is my friend, Soo, chilling on the couch and totally rockin’ the scottie socks with a three-quarters smile. Props to her and her shameless feet for bearing through the long and awkward photoshoot and pretending to believe me when I said I didn’t have a foot fetish.
So, I kind of wish I had finished these socks a bit sooner, because then I would’ve been able to write about some of the things that happened this past month, many of which were masculiknable. For example, I could’ve written about my trip to South Dakota (scottie socks and john-lancaster) and our stop in Mitchell (population: corn), or my new bike (scottie socks and annie c.) and the fortuitous way in which I stumbled upon her (and the many un-fortuitous ways i stumbled off of her). Or, I could’ve written about my latest J. Crew Factory purchase, which, we can all agree, deserves a post all by itself. Unfortunately, all of these have come and passed (except j. crew factory, that’s more of a lifestyle choice), and the only eventful happenings recently have been my PT appointment and receding gums.
That’s right. PT. physical therapy. For my back, which, after 3 months, is still sore and stiff. And then there’s my lower right premolar, which is now hypersensitive and requires me to use Sensodyne toothpaste and enamel-restoring mouthwash twice daily. Knitting (and crosswords and West Wing and fiber consumption) aside, I’m starting to feel old (for you crotchety 25+ folks, know that i am exaggerating. kind of) and, in a sense, cheated.
I think somewhere along the line, I got it into my head that good health was one of the ‘perks’ of being a doctor, that I somehow deserved (medical gods willing, of course) a body that ran like clockwork. Some part of me thought (thinks, to be completely honest) that with all the time spent learning what constituted a healthy body, knowing it and being it couldn’t be too far apart. But, as my erector spinae muscles remind me each morning, that is not the case. And I was so, very childish to think that it would be.
Maybe the real perk of being a doctor, rather than the fountain of youth (that’s not too much to ask for, is it?), is more like an understanding, a language that we use to shed light on the things that ail and scare us. Now, I admit that there is so much that medicine can do and restore (i most certainly wouldn’t be in medical school otherwise). But for someone like me, with a bad back, a strong propensity for falling off unstable things (e.g. human totem poles, bikes, etc.), and diabetes/glaucoma/heart disease (pick 2) in my not so distant future, knowledge has become a fast friend and an appropriate medicine for the things that afflict me most: time and pure, dumb luck.
Sad to say, I am getting older. Fortunately, this seems to be not an uncommon phenomenon. So, while I could obsess over the Adonis that I once was (high school mile time: 8:25), I think I’d rather lean back (with proper lumbar support, of course), put up my feet, and enjoy the ride.***Chicago’s nearest J. Crew Factory is in Rosemont, IL, 23 miles away and a 36 minute drive without traffic.