I walked by Wilson’s office and did a double-take. I stopped, backed it up a few steps and
stood looking in. Then I stepped inside and tried to make sense of what I was seeing.
“Are you…”
“Knitting,” Wilson said, with pride. A level of pride that was disturbing.
I stood there working double-time trying to process the scene. He was seated behind his desk, shirt sleeves rolled up to to the elbows with two big, thick green knitting needles in his hands. A big ball of bright orange yarn was on his desk. Between the ball and the needles hung a rectangle of the orange yarn. His work in progress.
“It’s a sweater for Bootsie,” he said, again with a lot of pride. “Or it will be. Progress has been slow to come by.”
“Before I get to the knitting part, can I point out that cats generally don’t wear sweaters.”
Wilson smiled as he focused on his needles and tried to knit. “Of course not. Not in this weather, at least.”
“Not in any weather,” I said. “They have fur.”
“It’s for the winter,” he said.
I looked at the little completed knitting that hung below the needles. “Winter of this year?” I asked.
“Like I said, knitting takes a while.”
“Yes, about the knitting.”
“It’s a way to de-stress,” he said. “Wendy had a bunch of us do an off-site late yesterday at this place downtown. It was a wonderful night of team-building and knitting.”
“Not often you hear those two in the same sentence,” I said.
“It’s the latest thing, at least it was as of last night,” Wilson said. “It’s called “medknitation.”
I sat down in one of the chairs facing his desk. I was feeling a little lightheaded at the moment.
“So this was like, a company thing?” I asked. “This knitting team.”
“Yes, just a small group, at the moment,” he said. “I was hand-picked by Wendy.”
“Lucky you.”
“She said I was looking pretty stressed lately. She also felt I had the dexterity and nimbleness of hand, as she put it, to knit.”
“Hmmm,” I said. “I wasn’t asked.”
“You may be a bit too clumsy,” Wilson said. “I mean, no offense, but it’s not nearly as easy as I’m making it look.”
“You’re not making it look easy,” I said.
Wilson put the needles down and stood. He reached up and wiggled his fingers like he was waving at the ceiling tiles. Then he put his hands on his hips and stretched this way and that way and worked his sides.
“The instructor recommended regular stretching breaks as a way to stay limber,” he said, doing some more stretches and mixing in some breathing exercises. “It was way easier to stay relaxed last night with the wine and smooth jazz.”
“This was like a party?” I asked. “On the company dime?”
A woman’s voice came from behind me. “And how’s our little knitter coming?”
I turned to see Wendy, who had a big square of knitting in her hands.
“Oh, and I see you already have an audience,” she said. “Maybe we’ll have a new knitter in our ranks soon.”
“I’m not sure,” I started to say, before she cut me off.
“I’m making a shawl,” she said, holding up a beige knitted square. “What do you think?”
“It’s…nice. Or it will be. I’m sure,” I said.
And just like that, she was gone.
“You should really give it a try,” Wilson said. “It’s very relaxing. It keeps you off your phone. Forces you to focus and live in the moment.”
“There are other moments I’d rather live in,” I said.
“It even helps with your posture, reminding you to sit straighter and breathe easier,” Wilson said.
I watched him knit for a minute. He hummed a bit, and uttered an occasional “knit, purl, knit, purl.”
I was transported decades back to my grandmother’s house. I could almost smell the pot roast. I had to shake myself awake to stay in the present. Maybe this is what they meant when they said it would help you focus on the moment.
“Okay,” I said. “I’m game.”
“Great,” Wilson said, getting up and bringing his needles and yarn with him. “I’ll show you the basic stitches. It’s easy once you get into a groove.”
He proceeded to show me how to make a stitch, then another. I fumbled around with the needles while Wilson tried to be patient.
“Maybe you can do some finger exercises or something,” he said. “You’re really struggling with the whole dexterity thing.”
“My dexterity is just fine, thank you,” I said, losing my focus and messing up a stitch. There was a big gap now in the so-called sweater.
“Maybe this could be like a leg opening for Bootsie,” I said.
“It may have to be the part that goes over his head, judging by the size of that opening,” Wilson said.
I was knitting something, but I’m not sure what. What had been a nice, neat little square of a cat sweater had been transformed into uneven mismash of material. I exhaled in exasperation as another stitch was butchered.
“Ah, maybe I should jump back in here,” Wilson said, concerned.
“I thought you said this was a way to de-stress,” I said.
“For most people it is,” he said, reaching for the needles.
“Let me finish one more stitch,” I said. “For Bootsie.”
“No, I think you’ve done enough,” Wilson said, pulling a needle out of my hand.
“Okay, okay,” I said. “Take your cat sweater and do it your way. But I can knit, you know.”
Wilson retreated back behind his desk and looked at the mess of a sweater and shook his head.
“I can see why Wendy didn’t pick you,” he said. “You need professional help, not knitting.”
He held up the uneven knitting, looking at the random openings and the mix of his nice, tidy stitches and my work, which appeared to be more knots than knitting.
“There’s no way to salvage this,” he said. “What will Bootsie say?”
“Probably, thanks,” I said.