mOst of the caps I make are accidental (she quick) because I hate planning out what I’m knitting beforehand. I hate it. It’s a horrible, immature habit that has somehow survived my adolescent and college years (like cracking my knuckles or my lightning-fast judgment of people who wear transition lenses) and, more than anything, it’s inefficient and has cost me a lot of time and yarn (and friends who apparently wear transition lenses). But, for whatever reason, I make hats the same, unthoughtful way every time, and if it turns out to be big, it’s a beanie, and if it turns out to be small, it’s a cap.
EXCEPT THIS TIME (she deliberate). This time, I had a very specific person in mind who I wanted to knit a tight cap for, so I went to the yarn store and picked up the eye-candiest yarn I could find, dug up my old slouchy herringbone beanie pattern (#selfpromosh), and then adapted the dimensions and stitch count to make a one-of-a-kind, snug herringbone cap.
And then I took a lax four plus months to knit this little guy because 1) work 2) netflix and 3) 50%-off Goodwill Saturdays (she frugal).
Other than picking my seat in a cafe next to suspected first dates, this is probably the most purposeful I’ve ever been.
I even got a friend to model it for me!
This is Emma, who took an unrelated tumble recently and from the neck down is covered in wounds in various stages of healing so I had to crop a lot of my photos, but she otherwise wore the shit out of this cap and was also just an all-around champ for putting on wool in 90 degree heat and pretending like she wouldn’t rather be eating the lunch I dragged her away from to do this awkward, pain-staking, impromptu picture-day behind the hospital.
Direct quote: “Let me get back to my gd salad.”
Now here’s one last picture of my cap in case you missed it. And why yes I did just get an air plant how did you guess.
Just a few days ago was my 29th birthday, which is a number that still seems too high given how often I’ve had cheese-bread as a meal the past twelve months. I think it’s because part of me still feels very young–juvenile, even–the ex-closeted (though, still parenthetical, some would say) part that was afraid to even look at slim jeans growing up and who thought I was a Clippers fan until JJ Redick moved to Philadelphia. That part of me is babyishly sad I missed pride this year (the second, quasi-political act of my life right after watching the west wing four times through) and angry whenever I sense the faintest whiff of homophobia (usually from myself).
But most of all, that part is curious. Curious how my future has changed and, likewise, how this mid-story-arc-plot-twist I’m finding myself in will one day look in hindsight. I’m especially curious whenever I meet queer people who are older than me, because I have to imagine what it took or what it cost for them to be out, or partnered, or just to be, in any sense of the term.
So, in light of all that, continue on if you’d like to read about the hands-down, meanest gay man I’ve ever met.