I got the flu for Christmas. It was the horrible case that’s been spreading all over the country. I spent nearly four miserable days in bed. I managed to hold it together long enough for us to open our gifts on Christmas morning, but I went back to bed shortly after. Thank goodness I didn’t have any Christmas knitting because I would have been sunk. I wasn’t just a little sick. I was so sick that I couldn’t knit. My DH put my knitting in bed with me, just in case I felt like working a few rows, but I didn’t.
After I recovered, I found myself punctuating the story of my Christmas flu with, “I was so sick I couldn’t knit.” Isn’t it funny how people use that phrase? Everyone has their threshold to show the severity of their sickness. Some say, “I was so sick I couldn’t eat.” And everyone in the room nods and agrees that the person was really sick. Other’s say, “I was so sick that I couldn’t go to work for three days.” And everyone responds, “Oh, yeah. You were really sick.”
So when I tell you that I was so sick that I couldn’t knit, that means I felt really bad. Knitting has become a constant companion in my life. An old friend that’s always around. I knit everywhere I can. In line at the grocery store, at the doctor’s office, in Bible study, and in the car. When I can’t pick up my needles, something is wrong.
Most non-knitters don’t get it, but knitters understand. They nod their heads and say, “Oh, yeah. You were really sick.”
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