UPDATE: I took out the Eye Candy Friday portion of this post because … well, it’s Thursday. Yeah, I’m a flake. (Though, to be fair, writing a dissertation is not a job that lends itself to keeping up with the outside world, and being snowed in all week hasn’t helped!) We’re expecting 2 more feet of snow today, so maybe I’ll venture on to the front porch for a white-out photo tomorrow morning.
Me: So I just signed up for a spinning class. I’m super excited!
NonCrafty Friend: Um, are you sure that’s a good idea? Did you check with [oncologist] to see if your body can handle it?
Me: Dude, it’s not that big a deal. I mean, Rumpelstiltskin could handle it, and he was at least as gimpy as me. And old ladies do it all the time. My teacher’s probably 100.
[another long pause]
NCF: You aren’t talking about going to the gym, are you?
Me: No. I’m talking about yarn. Are you insane?
This friend knows me pretty well. And while he is a hot-bodied gay boy who goes to the gym religiously, he has definitely never seen me exercise. But in his World Without Fiber Arts (a sad, cold, and desolate place I’m sure), spinning is high-intensity group indoor cycling.
High-Intensity. Group. Indoor. Cycling. Of those four descriptors, only ‘cycling’ appeals to me, and even that only if it’s at a leisurely pace and/or involves a picnic basket in one hand.
But the point — other than the Abbott and Costello absurdity of this discussion — is that I signed up for a spinning class!
It all started when I got a flat tire. Really. My tire blew out on Interstate 35, and when I went to get it replaced, I found that the replacement was FREE! In knitter logic, this meant that I could stop at a yarn shop on my way home to spend the money I’d allotted in my head for tire.
I went to Creative Fibers, a lovely store I hadn’t been to before (it’s one of at least two dozen in the Twin Cities area). I saw the roving on the wall (literally — it’s stacked up to the ceiling), and realized immediately that tire money should go not to yarn, but to their Beginning Spinning class, which starts in early April. In one month, I will be fumbling happily with a drop spindle, and in 6 weeks, with a spinning wheel.
In the meantime, there’s an honest-to-goodness blizzard going on. I really should rescue the 2-liter bottle of cherry coke from my car (if it hasn’t already exploded), but I fear I would have to tie a rope to the house, like in Little House on the Prairie, to find my way back.