So here I am, and there I was. A girl from Carolina is no longer a girl in Carolina. I’m not going to get into the hows and whys of that (well, the hows are pretty unremarkable: the Bluegrass Parkway in our loaded-to-the-brim old Dodge). I feel a bit shiftless. It’s not that I am unhappy, it’s just that there’s a little gum in the works, which is exacerbated by the fact that I didn’t get to go to SAFF like I planned. (Which means that not only did I miss an opportunity to spend some time down home with the folks, but I am missing the wheel-spinning class I paid for months ago.) It’s beyond my control at this point, but I’m still irritated. I am perpetually working on my ability to accept things I cannot change.

I have, of course, visited all of the three (!) yarn shops in this city, as well as the one in a neighboring town. They each have their own distinct personality, although I have to say the one I like the best would of course have to be the one that’s furthest away. I actually am still kicking around the idea of joining their knitting group, but 5:30 on a Monday evening is not really a fun time to be in traffic on Nicholasville Road. (I do this thing in new places, where I compare new roads to other roads in previous towns. Wendover Avenue and Wade Hampton Boulevard, High Point Road and Pleasantburg Drive, Battleground and Haywood. The best I can think of to describe Nicholasville is “the worst of all of them combined, during rush hour, at the height of the Christmas shopping season.” Heaven knows what fun it will be in actual December.)

It is a shame I have no place to take my knitting right now, because I’ve been a veritable project-bag factory. (Well, if factories ran on hopes and dreams and iron steam instead of manufacturing and profits.) I’ve made half a dozen and put a decent dent in my stash of fat quarters, and it’s a damn shame that I have no real reason to use any of them. I knit out of a ceramic bowl, and I rarely go anywhere unless we need groceries. I don’t even start my job until next month, so if I’m out of the house, I’m either on my bike or at Meijer.

So they just hang on the back of my door, vibrant but disappointed and slightly wilted, the handiwork getting markedly better, but still not quite good enough to give away. (To my credit, the second one I made today would be giftable, if not for the fact the stripes don’t match up at the seam. D’oh.) I’m also getting better with the rotary cutter, although I wish my skin had the self-healing abilities of my cutting mat.

I’ve finished one sweater since I arrived (the Featherweight) and knit through most of another one (Carabe, and I took a little bit of a detour from the pattern to add horizontal bust darts, which I’ve never done before). I’ve bought way too much yarn and fiber from the Internet, all enabled by Instagram. I’ve spun half a skein of sock yarn, made curtains, assembled furniture, and been altogether very crafty indeed, but all that’s been done with the dubious benefit of having nothing else to fill my days other than the odd interview and the requisite bureaucratic wrangling that always comes with relocation.

Next month, I’ll start a job. Then I’ll start this, because November is NaKniSweMo.

I’ve done NaNoWriMo a few times, and even completed it once. I’ve knitted a few sweaters, and the first adult-size one I made was the Brownstone I knit in under a month, so I know it can be done (and that was a strictly at-home project). I will also need to crank out a pair of socks for my mom, whose birthday is a little over three weeks away, so this NaKniSweMo is just my way of punching a hole in the gas tank of the unstoppable lumbering bus that is my life.