A Confession...

I was thinking of something the other day whilst riding around in my Yeep. Actually, I wasn't so much thinking as coming to a realization.

Here's the thing: I used to be a smoker. I know, I know, in todays society, that's akin to saying something like, 'Hey, I used to murder people!', but it's true. I smoked a good portion of my youth away, from about sixteen to twenty five or six. I've been smoke free ever since, and I'm quite proud of having kicked the habit. And I did it without using any aids, like gum or patches or that ridiculous looking fake plastic cigarette butt that dispenses nicotine everytime you take a haul off of it when having a craving. I suppose the rationale there is to quit by process of humiliation. You look like even more of a dumb ass carrying this thing around than you ever did when you were a smoker. Because really, we all know that smoking is cool. Otherwise they wouldn't use it in so many movies.

In any case, I was very proud that I kicked that addiction all by myself. I was addiction free, my own woman, slave to nothing. Until, that is, I was driving around the other day and realized that I now have the same feelings about knitting and yarn as I used to about cigarettes. The thoughts and behaviours are exactly the same. I didn't defeat anything. I've triumphed over nothing. All of my self righteousness was for naught...I'm still a slave. A slave to yarn. To knitting blogs. To craftzines and pattern books, knitty shops and fancy needles and the whole nine yards (of cashemere-wool blend in a yummy soft pink colourway).

I used to love smoking the exact same way that I now love knitting. This is something extremely difficult to explain to those outside of either addiction. Smoking moreso to a non-smoker I suppose. I'll do my best to convey the sentiments however.
I really don't know why it is that one loves such a filthy habit, but I loved everything about it. I loved my first cigarette in the morning with my first cup of coffee. The successive eighteen cigarette that followed with only two more cups of coffee weren't that great, but still. I loved smoking in the car. I loved taking a break from whatever I was doing during the day to have a smoke. I loved getting a fresh new pack of cigarettes and going through my own little ritual of opening it up. Fist the celophane, then pushing up the inner tray to reveal the cozy little cigarettes all snugly wrapped in tin foil. Which side you exposed first, the right or the left, said a lot about who you were. Why, I don't know. It's just part of the smoking culture. Then, if you had that kind of time, you could separate the tin foil from it's paper backing and then rub the tin foil onto your package of cigarettes, almost like a piece of gold leaf, with the butt end of your lighter. Magic! And oh so pretty.

The brand I smoked had a calendar on the back of the inner tray too, which was immensely handy. Thank you Players. I could always accurately calculate my next quit date, which of course never ever came.
I always had to have my cigarettes with me too. Panic if I'd forgotten them, lost them etc. They were an essential part of my day and took a lot of time and energy to think about. When to have one, where to have one, how many should I have, how many do I have left, when do I need to go buy more, how much to spend on them and on and on and on. I thought, for a while at least in my blissful ignorance, that I had left that all behind.

Until I was packing my knitting bag to go visit my mother.

Where my pack of smokes used to sit on the seat next to me now sits a home-made knitty bag full of completed projects to show off and works in progress. Knitting is the first thing I do every morning, with steaming cup of coffee within close reach, and the last thing I do every night. I used to think to myself, "Okay, one more smoke and then I'll go to bed." Now it's one more row.
I knit when I'm on the phone. I knit watching movies. I can't knit in the car, at least not while I'm driving, but I assure you, if I could figure out how to do it safely, I would. That's valuable knitting time wasted.

When I'm busy doing something else, like say, oh I don't know, working, I wish I were knitting. I think about how much I can knit when I get home. I even take my knitting with me, just to sneak in a few stiches here and there, feeling immensely guilty about it as I do, just like the cigarettes of yore.

I get giddy about going to the knitty shops. I go through my own little ritual of touching damn near everything in the store, contemplating projects and worrying about what I can buy and where I can buy it and how much I should spend. I get home and unwrap all my little bundles, these snugly wrapped little balls of yarn. What kind of yarn you buy says a lot about you. I don't know why, it's just part of the knitting culture.

I think what it all boils down to, other than perhaps an actual chemical reaction in the brain, is the feeling of never being alone, even in ones own solitude. I like being alone and have mostly been alone during my wee lifetime, but when I smoked, I felt like I wasn't entirely on my own. Same with knitting. You could lock me up in a cell for days at a time and as long as I was knitting, I'd be content. Never alone.

I used to carry the cigarettes as a way to define and protect me. "I'm a smoker", they'd say. I could either find other smokers and instantly have a bond, or separate myself from those who weren't. Same with knitting. I can seek out other knitters and share a common thread (or yarn as it were) or seal myself off in a group and retreat into my own little world. The only difference really in these two addictions is that I'm fairly confident knitting won't kill me somewhere down the road. Unless I fall on one of my needles or accidently garotte myself with a circ. And the only way that knitting will leave me breathless is if a) my stash has an uprising and smothers me in my sleep or b) there is an exquisite hand spun/hand painted skein of whatever that I simply must have.

At least now, I'm more productive. And instead of taking myself away from those that I love in small bits and pieces, I now produce those bits and pieces and give them away in the form of mittens and hats and scarves and bootees. And sweaters. And socks. And bags. And washcloths. And stuffed toys.

Yeah, if I can't beat this addictive behaviour altogether, I think its at least a good trade off.