I haven't had a lot of downtime at work lately, which means two things. My feet feel like a thousand shards of poisoned glass, and no knitting. The feet thing I can deal with. I have Epsom salts and wintergreen oil.
The no knitting sucks.
I have no escape from pop country (the same ten songs, over and over and OVER), or from the yak-yak-yak. Yak is all well and good when it's in my yarn, but not so great when it's in my ears. Of course, I could charge up the ol' iPod and crank some Beatles, but who has time to play with electronics?
Complaining is easier.
I have to admit, the whole no-knitting thing means that I'm less likely to get a fist in the mouth. My sarcasm gland goes into hyperdrive when I'm confronted with goofiness while I'm knitting.
"Oh, I can do that, but I just don't have the time!"
"Yeah, I guess sitting on your can for two hours takes up most of your energy."
Sometimes I'm nicer than that. It depends on the day, and who's asking. Enter random person. Random person spies the man-sized sweater in my lap, to which I am applying a collar.
If it's been a good day and I'm feeling cheerful, I will answer pleasantly. "It's a sweater!" I might even point out some of the detailing, or tell them about the yarn. If I am in the middle of The Day From Hell, my answers are less pleasant.
"It's a sock. The sleeves are to keep my hands warm while I put it on."
"It's a house cozy with twin chimney covers."
Sometimes, I am inches away from murder, and my answers show this.
"It's a body bag. Wanna try it on?"
"See the sleeves? What do you THINK it is?"
I try to take a break before I get to this point. No one has been killed, and I still have a job. I may have to switch to dishcloths, though. Obvious AND safe.