The Great American Knit Out

The much-anticipated annual Knit Out at Union Square happened this weekend. A haven of sorts, a meeting place for knitters and crocheters, one side of the square was filled with a series of booths occupied by various yarn companies and stores in the area, and areas set aside for free knitting and crocheting instruction. The centerpiece, on the outdoor stage, was the fashion show, showcasing wearable and attractive knit pieces. A far cry from Bryant Park, perhaps, but still something worth crowing about.

I obviously had some way off-base preconceptions upon attending this Knit Out—one, that it would be swarming with nice, warm, grandmotherly women. I imagined it to be a cross between a Quaker meeting and junior sailing camp. It was a nice day, warm, sunny, perfect for trading knitting tips and patterns, communing with fellow craft enthusiasts, right?

I fought my way through crowds of people who shoved at me trying to get free bags of patterns. The people in the booths were friendly, but only friendly to those they believed were actual true knitters (I somehow didn’t qualify, even though I was dressed in my dumpy best … though I probably should have worn a knit to prove myself), pouring sweat, feeling a bit faint and dehydrated. I remembered, too late, that one of my medications warned against exposure to sunlight. People walked right into me. And didn’t apologize!

My hot sweaty carcass made its way to a booth where they were giving away size 200 bamboo knitting needles. The two men couldn’t bring the needles out of the cardboard boxes fast enough. As I peered closer, to inspect the needles, four hands shot out in front of me and their owners’ disembodied voices screamed, “Gimme, gimme!” and one thrust her large hammer hand out and said, “Gimme the long needles.”

Then a fight broke out, and someone screamed. A shout, then an angry exclamation. I heard an actual sentence coming out clean and clear: “You need to get to the end of the line.” A woman’s voice shrilled out: “What line? There ain’t no line! What you talking about?” And he answered, “The line, the line! There’s been a line for hours! Get to the back of the line!”

I guess there is a good reason why knitting needles are no longer allowed on a plane as a carry-on item. I skittered away before I became a knitting-needle-stabbed casualty.

There was indeed a line. And as the man had said, the line had been there for hours. There were at least fifty or so women standing in this line, of all colors and sizes, and yes, all women, waiting for their free gargantuan knitting needles. I muttered one last “Hell no, motherfucker,” and beat a trail for the DSW across the street.

There is no peace on earth, I said.