I finished my Olympic Knitting project. I had to push at the end, but I finished the collar (and sleeve lengths) before the closing ceremonies. It took me 90 minutes to set in each sleeve (180 minutes total, or 1 entire disc of Desperate Housewives).
Admittedly, I did a stunning job setting in one sleeve, and a so-so job setting in the other. (The so-so one is the one I did first.) I put it on, and I was horrified.
The fit? Perfect.
The yarn? Soft as a baby lamb.
The look? Made by loving hands at home. Not chic, or elegant. The yarn was tweedy and beautiful in the skein, but ... it doesn't make me proud.
I took it off, and abandoned it on the dining room table, for later judgment. (My projects often improve once we've had time apart.)
Last night, I modeled it for Andrew, Mom, and the dogs. Mom thinks changing the zipper's color (from cream to either mauve or pale blue) will drastically improve it. Andrew agreed. The dogs burped. (Not sure how to take that.)
I discussed the Olympic Sweater with the inimitable Dr. B. It turns out that I'm a process knitter. Who'da thunk it?
What I have learned is this: The more I enjoy spinning it, the more ghastly I will find it knits up.
"Show us a picture," you might be saying. "Let us decide!"
I will. Once the offending sweater returns from Mom's house.