When Angie buzzed me into her building, I paused in the tastefully understated lobby. A large, rectangular gilt-framed mirror ran along one wall and I took in my reflection. The hood had managed to flatten the back of my hair while the rain had frizzed up the front. Finger-combing my chestnut curls seemed to help a little. But why did I look so pale all of a sudden? And where had these dark circles under my eyes come from? I was certainly not looking very Sandra Bullocky this evening. These slight feelings of insecurity were not uncommon when I was about to see Angie. It wasn’t that she purposefully tried to make me feel like a pale, frizzy-haired behemoth, but in her presence, I sometimes did. She was just so petite, so blonde, so stylish . . . And her hair—well, her hair was just ridiculous. Normal people did not have thick, lustrous manes like hers. And now, thanks to the holistic scalp treatment, it probably smelled like a basket full of strawberries, too.
“Hi!” Angie opened her door and greeted me with a hug. She was wearing a silk halter-style top in a deep chartreuse, which I could only assume was the height of fashion. The legs of her designer jeans grazed the top of pointy black boots with a three-inch heel. Still, she was at least two inches shorter than I was. “Come in. Oh! You brought red wine. Great!”
I followed her into the living room where two women and Martin occupied Angie’s sumptuous furniture. A large, brightly coloured glass tray laden with a variety of appetizers sat on her low dark-wood coffee table. “Help yourself to a snack,” she instructed. “I’ll get you a drink and then we’ll do the introductions.”
“Hi.” I exchanged smiles and brief greetings with the two strangers, and then took a seat on the stylish charcoal ottoman next to my gay friend.
“All right everyone,” Angie announced, returning to the room and handing me a glass of red wine. “Welcome to our first official stitch ’n bitch. Let’s go around the room and introduce ourselves. Please give your name, a short background, and tell us what brought you here today and why you want to learn to knit.”
It was like an AA meeting or something—except for the wine. Not that I had ever been to an AA meeting... and thanks to the positive steps I was taking to get my life back on track, I probably never would. But from what I had seen on TV, recovering alcoholics—and also sex addicts, come to think of it—had to go through a similar introduction process.
“I’ll begin,” Angie said. “My name is Angie—”
“Hi Angie,” we chorused. Obviously, I wasn’t the only one seeing the AA parallels.
“I’m thirty-two years old and I’m cohost of The Buzz on Channel 13. I started this group mainly because knitting is so hot right now. I mean, anyone who’s anyone is doing it: movie stars, pop stars, businessmen . . . It’s a great way to relieve stress and to get your creativity flowing.” She paused, a delighted grin spreading across her berry lips. “I might even do a story on our group . . . if you don’t mind being on TV?” She gave us a little wink, as if she’d just offered us a guest-starring role on Desperate Housewives. I would never have let on to Angie, but while The Buzz did have a dedicated following, it wasn’t exactly the next Dateline.
“That’s it really...” she continued with a shrug. “I just like to be on the cutting edge of new trends. It’s a passion of mine. So... who’s next?”
The cute dark-haired woman to my right cleared her throat. “Hi,” she said, smiling sweetly around the room. “My name’s Sophie. Angie and I are old friends. We went to high school together back in Spokane.” She looked to Angie who made a face to indicate that going to high school in Spokane was not exactly the highlight of her life. “Anyway...my husband was recently transferred to Seattle and it gave me the opportunity to reconnect with Angie. She suggested this knitting circle would be a good way to meet people.”
“Great,” we all mumbled. “Welcome,” Martin said, smiling genuinely at the newcomer.
“Oh! I almost forgot to mention...” Sophie gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. “I’m also a mom. I have an adorable thirteen-month-old son named Flynn. I’m looking forward to knitting him some cute little hats and sweaters.”
“Sweet,” someone said.
“Awwww . . .” from another.
I made some kind of appropriate cooing noise, but I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of envy. There was no baby in my foreseeable future to knit cute little hats and sweaters for. But I forced myself to snap out if it, and took another big drink of wine. Look at the bright side, I told myself. If I were pregnant, or planning to get pregnant soon, I couldn’t enjoy this delicious Pinot Noir.
Next up was an attractive young woman with sandy-blonde hair, pulled back to highlight her incredible bone structure and grey-green eyes. “Hi. I’m Nicola. I’m twenty-eight and I work in PR. Sophie invited me along—we met at Pilates class. I guess the reason I’m here is that I’ve been completely immersed in planning my upcoming wedding.”
“Congratulations,” Angie said.
I smiled through another uncomfortable twinge. Twenty-eight years old and about to get married; obviously she was well ahead of the thirtieth-birthday deadline.
“Thanks. It’s going to be an incredible day... everything I’ve ever dreamed of, but all the preparations are soooo stressful. I mean, I used to think my job was high pressure, but that’s nothing! Anyway, I recently read an article about stockbrokers taking up knitting to combat their high stress levels. When Sophie suggested I join, I thought: Well, if it works for stockbrokers, it should work for brides, too!”
“We could all use a little de-stressing,” Angie said to Nicola.
Now it was Martin’s turn. “I guess I’m the token male.” Everyone giggled . . . Angie, a little flirtatiously, I thought. It was second nature for Angie to act that way around men. She didn’t yet realize what a waste of time it was in Martin’s case. “My name’s Martin. I’m a friend and colleague of Beth’s.” He indicated me with his hand, as I had not yet introduced myself. “I’ve been a smoker for... god, I started when I was fifteen so . . . almost twenty years. I’m finally trying to quit. I was moaning to Beth just the other day about how the evenings are the hardest, when I have nothing to keep my mind and hands busy. She suggested I join you in learning how to knit so . . . here I am.”
“Well, I hope you’ll enjoy having something new to do with those hands,” Angie said, a devilish twinkle in her eye.
Sophie leaned toward him. “Glad you could join us. It’s good to have a little testosterone in the group.”
A very little, I felt like adding. I wished Martin had introduced himself as “Beth’s gay friend and colleague”—just to save any confusion or embarrassment.
I went next. “Hi. My name is Beth. I’m a freelance writer for various magazines around town. When Angie invited me to join the stitch ’n bitch club, I thought it would be a good way to meet some new people. I’ve uh . . . recently gone through some major changes in my personal life, so it’s the perfect time to learn a new hobby... and make some new friends.” I smiled at everyone.
Of course, what I really meant was: Hi. My name is Beth. I’m a freelance writer for various magazines around town. When Angie invited me to join the stitch ’n bitch club, I felt like running and hiding under my bed. The last thing in the world I wanted to do was meet new people and learn a new hobby. But ever since I broke up with the love of my life, I’ve been teetering on the brink of depression and potential alcoholism. Recently, I had an epiphany where I realized that if I don’t get some semblance of a social life soon, I will turn into my mini-doughnut eating, chick-flick watching drone of a roommate.
I silently wondered if any of the other guests had an ulterior motive for joining the group.
With impeccable timing, Angie’s intercom buzzed. “Ah!” she said, standing up from her plush sofa. “That’ll be our coach.”
As Angie hurried to the door, the rest of us exchanged bemused looks.
“That would be our knitting coach?” Nicola, the bride-to-be, asked.
“That’s a new one on
me,” Martin said. He was biting the side of his finger, obviously wishing it was a cigarette.
Angie returned, trailed by a tall mid-fortyish woman with curly salt-and-pepper hair. She was wearing a large, brightly coloured poncho. “Everyone, this is Mary from The Yarn Barn. She’s going to help us get started with our knitting.”
“Hi Mary,” we chorused, and then briefly introduced ourselves. Mary took a seat in our midst and we all extracted our materials. I felt all tingly and excited as I removed the positive and hopeful blue-green yarn. Maybe it was the glass of wine, which Angie kept refilling, but I was actually enjoying myself. While the single-to-committed ratio in the group wasn’t exactly what I’d hoped, I liked these people. Perhaps it was a little too early to tell, but I felt the beginnings of a bond with them. Yes, I’d definitely had too much wine.
“Okay...” Mary began, when we all sat with needles and balls of yarn on our laps. “The first step in beginning to knit is casting stitches on to your needle. Unfortunately, casting on is one of the trickiest parts of knitting, but once you’ve mastered it and moved on, it’ll be smooth sailing.”
“I think we need more wine for this.” Angie hurried to the kitchen.
“I think I need less wine for this,” I said. “I’m not very... uh . . . craftily inclined.”
Sophie, the young mom, laughed. “Neither am I. We can help each other.”
“All right everyone.” Mary regained our attention. “Let’s begin by making a slip knot.”
“Hang on!” Angie called, refilling Nicola’s glass, then rushing the wine bottle back to the kitchen.
“Can someone show me how to make a slip knot?” I asked.
Martin laughed. “You can’t even make a slip knot? God, you are bad. Here . . .” He took my hopeful yarn and wrapped it around his fingers.
“I don’t know how either,” Sophie said. Luckily, Nicola was able to oblige.
It got worse from there. Mary held her hand up like it was a gun and we followed suit. Then, she wrapped the yarn around her thumb and index finger, moving her hand around the needle in some complex and indiscernible pattern. When she was done, a new stitch had appeared on her needle. A new stitch had not appeared on mine—or on Angie’s or Sophie’s. After a number of attempts, Angie threw her knitting needle to the floor in mock frustration and stormed out of the room to retrieve another bottle of red. Sophie and I tried, fruitlessly, to cast on the requisite stitches, but our uncontrollable giggling was impeding our progress. Nicola was faring a little better, while Martin was easily following our instructor’s movements, little deep-purple nooses lining themselves up on his knitting needle. Sooooooooo gay!
“I got one!” Sophie shrieked. “At least I think I did. Is this right?” She held her needle with its first pale-blue stitch up to Mary.
“Very good. See if you can get ten more stitches on.”
I suddenly felt incredibly frustrated. This was just like eighth-grade home ec when I got a D for being unable to thread a sewing machine. Maybe I was more than just domestically challenged: Maybe I was domestically hopeless? Just when I was beginning to like this group, I was going to have to drop out. I couldn’t very well continue on, could I? Each week we’d get together so they could work on their blankets and sweaters and cute little baby hats, while I would still be trying, in vain, to tie a slip knot on my own! I was a lost cause!
Suddenly, Mary was at my side. “Let me cast some stitches on for you so you can get to the fun part. You can practise casting on at home with your how-to book.” Gratefully, I handed over my supplies.
Two hours later, when our coach stuffed her accoutrements into a large calico bag and departed, we had each made varying degrees of progress. Thanks to the ten stitches Mary had provided me, I was able to knit several rows. Unfortunately, due to what I would learn was called “dropping stitches,” each row was shorter than the one before. The result was a lopsided triangle with the approximate circumference of an Oreo. Not exactly a luxurious throw for the end of my bed, but I couldn’t help but feel a certain sense of accomplishment. I held it up proudly.
“Nice,” Martin said. “What is it? An eye patch?”
I held it over my left eye. “What do you think? Could this be the next big thing?”
“Definitely!” Sophie said, with mock enthusiasm. “You should wear it around town. It’s bound to catch on.”
“We could have you on The Buzz,” Angie added. “Beth Carruthers, inventor of today’s hottest trend, the knitted eye patch!”
“Maybe you could knit a few for my bridesmaids’ gifts?” Nicola asked.
“I’d be happy to,” I beamed. “Let’s see... This one took me approximately two and a half hours, so it shouldn’t take me more than a couple of weeks to outfit the whole wedding party.”
When ridiculing my handiwork had been exhausted, the other members displayed their achievements. Angie, with much hands-on coaching from Mary (she was paying her after all), had created a fairly even inch-long strip with her soft, fuzzy pink yarn. Sophie had managed a slightly larger rectangle, while Nicola’s deep maroon swatch was almost perfectly symmetrical. Martin, on the other hand, seemed to have instantly mastered the art of knitting. His large purple square was virtually flawless, with varying stitches in the last few rows. “Mary thought I was ready to try purling,” he explained. “You go in from back to front and wrap the yarn counter-clockwise.”
Huh? I was probably several weeks from purling.
At the door, we said our goodbyes with affectionate hugs. There were no “nice to meet yous.” It seemed implausible that we had only come together that night. “So,” Angie said. “Same time next week?”
“Yes!” I replied exuberantly. I’d had quite a bit of wine by this point.
“Do you want me to host next week?” Nicola offered. “I live in Belltown.”
“That would be great,” Angie replied. “Let me get your address and I’ll email it to everyone.”
As I made my way down the darkened hillside, my knitted eye patch tucked safely away with my yarn and needles, I felt a serenity I hadn’t in ages. Yes, I was fairly drunk, but I was also filled with a new sense of optimism. The stitch ’n bitch club was infinitely more enjoyable than I had anticipated. Learning to knit was fun, but I hadn’t expected to feel so instantly connected to my new companions. It was so refreshing not to be judged or pitied for my failed relationship. To the knitting circle, I was just me, Beth Carruthers—not Colin’s ex, or the girl who broke up with the perfect guy. I had to admit that Angie might have been right: New friends and a new hobby seemed to be just what the doctor ordered.
Six
MY NEWFOUND SENSE of contentment continued through the weekend. My spirits were so bolstered by the stitch ’n bitch club that I even practised my casting on. With the instruction booklet on my lap, I painstakingly manoeuvred the needle around the yarn until I had achieved a single stitch. That one little noose gave me such an immense sense of achievement. I had done it! It had taken intense concentration and several false starts, but I had done it! My success was especially impressive since I had been focusing on my project while trying to tune out Kendra’s phone call to her mother, relaying, in explicit detail, the salad she had taken to work for lunch (dressing in a small container on the side, tomato slices kept in a separate aluminum foil pouch so they didn’t make the lettuce soggy, pre-cooked chicken breast wrapped in plastic . . .).
As the stitches on my needle increased, so did the feeling of accomplishment. But there was more behind my good mood than just my knitting prowess. I was experiencing a sudden wave of emotional stability. After only two and a half months, I seemed to be well on my way to a full recovery from my devastating breakup. It was some sort of miracle! The stitch ’n bitch club had been the defining moment, that crucial test that I had passed with flying colours! Much to my delight (and surprise), I had just spent a very enjoyable evening with a bride-to-be and a new mom. I was healed!
Really, I had only experienced t
he slightest twinge of envy. I certainly didn’t despise them, or wish them ill, or want to run out of the room crying. In fact, that evening had made me realize that maybe I wasn’t such a traditional, needy woman after all. In fact, I was very independent and self-reliant! I had been charming and pleasant toward Sophie and Nicola, and I really liked them both. Yes, the tide had turned and I was a changed woman. I was like Mel now... except even better. I didn’t need a man or a dog!
I was also feeling incredibly positive about my career. While the life of a freelancer is often feast or famine—too much work or not enough—lately, I seemed to have found that happy medium. Seattle Scene, a popular monthly magazine with an environmental leaning, had just commissioned me to write an article for them. When magazines contacted you, it was a good sign that you were making a name for yourself. I had also recently secured a regular column in a popular daily paper called Juiced. My contribution was “Caffeine Culture,” a look at the city’s new, unique, or trendy coffee shops. I could even expense my lattes and muffins! It was my dream job.
On Monday morning, I set off to Fremont on the 9:30 bus. I’d heard about a great café where the baristas were intentionally rude and abrupt, the service was incredibly slow, but the coffee and maple scones were well worth it. As the #8 roared across Lake Union to the former hippie community, I felt really upbeat...practically happy! The realization that I didn’t need a man in my life was freeing! I was a confident and self-reliant career woman, with friends, a developing hobby, and a burgeoning social life. The future seemed full of hope again . . . hope and a free latte.
I found the small coffee shop easily and entered the mid-morning hubbub. The decor was eclectic—pop art mixed with ancient taxidermy—but the vibe was decidedly trendy. I planned to order my breakfast, then retire to a back table to jot some notes on my experience. A good twelve minutes later, I had a chipped jade-green mug containing my latte and a maple scone on a plate with my grandmother’s china pattern. My bounty in hand, I made a beeline for one of the few vacant tables toward the back of the room. And then I heard it.
Unravelled Page 4