When I was about 10 years old, my Aunt Irene taught me how to knit. I remember a really ugly scratchy olive green yarn and a hideous unfinished sweater. I didn't knit again until I was in my twenties, and then strayed quickly into crochet because it was faster and easier. Now I am considerably older, and have discovered the zen of knitting, with the exception of socks. Last night, I decided to start knitting socks. I started 3 times. I frogged three times. I'm using fingering weight superwash wool and #1 dpns. With a toe up pattern, I made it to the point (or lots of pointy points) of joining the stitches. I ended up putting the needles and yarn in yet another canvas bag and into the cedar armoire, taking out my trusty cotton yarn and an unfinished xmas gift. Christmas is less than 4 months away, after all, and I'd better get busy on all of those easy (description deleted to preserve the surprise).
The socks will come as socks tend to do.