Picture this, if you will. Saturday, December 13, Burbank, California. The girl and I are shopping. It has finally cooled off and the temperature has dropped below 60 degrees (with sincere apologies to my peeps in the upper prairies where it is currently 40 below). What does this mean? It means that I can actually consider throwing on something handknit. First I try on my Silk Rhapsody ruana. Looks like reindeer crap. Then I remember my Spanish Dancer Shawl. Seven skeins of Koigu goodness. I put it on before we left the house. It looked great. In fact, it was perfect--not too warm, a flattering color, cool ruffle. I felt like a real knitter, as in, heck yes, I wear handknits I've made. It was the first time I'd worn it. EVAH! Here is a photo of it in better days (notice: foreshadowing):
After a wonderful feast with H. at P.F. Changs, I am in the restroom and I notice one hole, no two, no three, etc., you get the idea. A total of at least six holes and a broken edge on one of the sides of the shawl. What is this? Poorly executed spit splices? kittens? eco-terrorism? No, my friends, it is much worse. The M-word...MOTHS. Moths? I said, dumfounded, when my friend suggested it. In Southern California? noooooooooooooooooo! Somehow, I thought we were too dry or too cool for moths. Moths are for Easterners, I thought...people with Pendleton coats and Hudson Bay blankets and such. Now, I ask you, what to do? I'm not willing to just scrap this shawl, nor am I crazy about undoing that ruffle. I'll wait here for your answer.