I am a decent amateur knitter. I chose the word "decent" because that can be interpreted in many ways. Interpret as you will. A few clues to guide your interpretation are that I never follow directions (if men don't have to follow directions when putting together their child's first bicycle, then I really should not have to follow directions when assembling a child's sweater), and that the bulk of my knitting "projects" consist of half finished creations all knotted and tangled in my knitting basket.
For years, I've considered myself a knitter. I love wool. I love yarn. I love the beautiful colors and textures and fuzziness. The whole concept seems so friggen wholesome. I feel like knitting will make my house smell like cinnamon and make my hair grow in thick, luscious and wavy.
But I've also always felt this pressure. The pressure to finish one of the ten half-completed projects in my knitting basket. The pressure to create something beautiful. The pressure to not get bored halfway through my newest inspiration. The pressure not to notice that I can stitch like a mad woman and after three hours have half an inch of product to show for it. The pressure to untangle the twenty balls of mohair I inherited from my grandmother and make something befitting of it.
After years of this pressure, I have decided that enough is enough. I am not a knitter. My house does not smell like cinnamon. I have crappy hair.
I'm listing the mohair on eBay. And I feel better already.