I was so excited to open my new box of yarn from uber-yarnster and Brooklyn Tweed star Jared Flood. It came in a gorgeous box, tied and tidy, with five already-wound skeins of his new yarn called Arbor, from Targhee sheep and with nuanced palette echo echo echo, but anyway I was happy. It’s been a long hot day with hideous things on the news and very little gardening done and a few too many macaroons consumed, so I was very happy to get this fancy box even though I know it’s half-scam. But when I opened it, I saw gray. A-fucking-gain. I chose very carefully and I chose gray, again. There actually are shades of gray but there’s nothing kinky or sexy or even remarkable about these. One of them has some purple in it, the others – gray. I have dozens more just like these and if you think that’s appalling you are not a knitter.
But why not scarlet? Why not Loam or Parka or Klimt or Treehouse or Black Fig or Degas for god’s sake, and yes these really are the names for Jared’s new yarn. How about say, blue like the ocean or green like John Mayer’s disgusting but metaphysically authentic tattoos? Mustard, dachshund, crow, Tide, all these possibilities and I get gray, after lots of thought. Are my thoughts gray? Not really, and actually more red-for-rage since the last 48 hours of coping with a colicky infant Trump.
I don’t want gray. I don’t want to be gray or look gray or knit gray or see gray or even hear it with its slight toilet-plunger sound. Its I’m-too-tired-to-be-even-beige aura is making me want to strangle it with itself. Nah, not really. I just don’t want to knit with it. I’m getting back online and ordering Humpback or Wreath.
Actually I’m ordering Treehouse, “a saturated spruce green that leans toward teal.” I like colors that lean toward things but are not those things. So Wittgensteinian, or something. At least not gray.