Ah, Pomotamus. We meet again. Mr. Smooth Talker, that's you. Hiding out in my drawer, waiting for me to forget our last date. Hoping that I've forgotten your careless betrayal of me, not once but over and over. How many evenings did I waste, dreaming of the day when we would be together in perfect gauge and harmonious stitch definition? How many hours did I throw away, thinking that you loved me, when you were just waiting to sneak other stitches onto the needle, or cast others aside as recklessly as you did me? You're a cad, Pomotamus. Oh yes--you thought I wouldn't see you on all those other blogs, didn't you? You never thought I'd notice you snuggling up to all those other legs, your design perfectly rendered in that OTHER wool, by those OTHER hands. And yet, I saw. I saw, and my heart broke. I should have known I meant nothing to you.
I soldiered on, however. I found other socks, other yarns, and I healed. I eased my pain with mosaics and socks the color of clown vomit and I drowned my sorrows in pair after pair of other, substitute socks. They weren't you, of course. Who could be you? I looked better, I seemed better...but inside, I pined for you. I pined for your gentle swirls and ridges, ached to feel your gentle touch on my calves. Still, I knew it could never be.
You're from another world, Pomotamus. A world where sock patterns have unpronounceable names and knitters can count perfectly each time, every time, to produce magical patterns that the rest of us can only dream about. You're bright lights, big city while I....well, I'm just a country girl. I knew we were star-crossed lovers, and I tried--I really tried-- to fall in love with other socks. But they were just children compared to your sophisticated patterns, your intricate details.
And then, you reappeared. You bided your time, waited until my confidence was up--until I was flushed with the success of an entrelac swatch (I was so naive) and then you slipped right back into my life. You begged and you pleaded. You promised that this time would be different. You swore that you loved me, and that you would be faithful. You vowed to bring in no more strange stitches, and to lose none that I had lovingly placed in your care. I know what you are--I put it in writing. I took each of your confounded charts and put them in writing so that there would be proof of your committment. Still, I wavered. You hurt me, Pomotamus. A girl doesn't forget a thing like that, a thing like tinking back so many times that her hands ached just because you couldn't stop partying.
But you know me. You know how to get under my skin. You pointed out that lovely ball of ocean colors, that handpainted yarn with the aquas and the blues. You whispered in my ear how stunning the two of you would be, what beautiful music we'd all three make together. I wanted to believe you. I wanted to believe you so very badly. Slowly, I touched the sea-colored yarn. I touched the pages of your pattern. It could work, I thought. It's crazy...but it could work. I could love again...couldn't I?
I started slowly, but then became more bold, working through the stitches with speed and confidence. It seemed like it was all coming true--like you really had come back to me for good. The stitches were right at the end of every row--no strangers, just as you promised. All the originals there. It was like a dream come true. As I said, I wanted so badly to believe you. I knitted and worked and even began to think that you had never really left me.
And then, this:
I was sucked in--so sucked in that I didn't notice how ghastly those yarn overs looked until I was over 24 rows into you. Didn't notice the gaping holes you were cunningly slipping into place. It's ironic, really, that the first time we dated I actually struggled to make those yarn overs look like holes; now they look like dinner plates could slide through them. What happened? Do I mean so little to you? Am I a plaything for your amusement?
I'm done with you, Pomotamus. You've broken my heart for the last time. You're heartless and cruel and you delight in my anguish. I'm burying you deep in the stash where you can't hurt anyone. But away from all the lovely handpainted sock yarn--I won't have you corrupting any more fibers in your vicious plots.
I've learned my lesson. Some socks just can't commit. I will go on, I will love again. The love, I suspect, may be pink......