Frogged (A Eulogy for the Rows That Didn’t Make It)
We are gathered here today in the quiet pages of this blog to mourn a devastating, tragic loss. We are here to pay our respects to Rows 14 through 32 of my current Christmas Tree Skirt project.
They were beautiful. They were ambitious. And they were entirely, completely off count.
For the uninitiated, “frogging” is the term makers use for ripping out their stitches. Why? Because you have to rip-it, rip-it, rip-it. (Yes, fiber arts humor is dark). It is the ultimate equalizer in the craft world. It does not matter how many years you have been doing this; the frog comes for us all.
The Crime
The tragedy occurred last week. As the co-founder of Sharp & Social, I pride myself on maintaining a high standard of precision. But as a human being who enjoys a good martini and excellent gossip, the math simply stopped mathing.
I was mid-sentence, deeply invested in a story about someone’s chaotic workplace drama, blindly throwing my crochet hooks into stitches. I felt like a master. I felt like a machine.
I was, in fact, creating a shape that does not exist in Euclidean geometry.
The Discovery
The next morning, in the cold, unforgiving light of day, I pulled the project out of my bag. It didn’t look like a Christmas Tree Skirt. It looked like a ruffle that had given up on its dreams. I counted the stitches. I counted them again. I tried to use “creative tension” to make it look intentional.
But deep down, I knew the truth. The project was compromised.
The Ceremony
There is a specific sound that accompanies the death of a row. It’s that aggressive, rhythmic zzzzzzzzzzzip of yarn separating from itself. It is the exact sound of your pride leaving your body. As I pulled the thread, watching hours of work dissolve back into a sad, kinky pile of crinkled yarn, I had to remind myself of the golden rule of crafting:
We do not judge the progress by the finished piece alone.
The hours spent on those lost rows weren’t a waste. They were the price of admission for a hilarious night with friends. Those rows died so that my yapping could thrive.
So here’s to the stitches that didn’t make it to the final frame. You were loved. You were temporary. And you are currently being rewound into a ball so we can try this whole thing again.
Rest in pieces, Alyssa
