Second Sock Syndrome

One is the loneliest number.


I love to knit socks. I love the tiny little stitches. I love the challenge of adapting a stitch pattern to go around the ankle, then split on the heel, and then span beautifully across the arch. I love the magic of turning a heel, and the orderly artistry of the twisted stitches picked up along the gusset. I love their seamlessness, and their perfect fit. I love everything about knitting socks, except... I hate knitting the other one.

The first sock is an adventure. How will the yarn look knitted? Will the stitch pattern work? Will it fit? Can I do it?

Once I finish that first sock, I feel a burst of accomplishment. I try it on, and admire how nice it looks, and how well it fits. I turn it over and over in my hands, marveling over what can be done with one really long piece of string. Then, I set it aside, and think, "I'll cast on for the second one in a day or so; I'm tired of working that pattern." But there's always something new to make, and the single sock just languishes in my knitting drawer.

I need to befriend a one-legged person who loves hand knitted socks.