Oh hey, here’s me in my finished Log Cabin Pullover, designed by me for last year’s Fringe and Friends Log Cabin Knitalong. It’s a log-cabin modification of one of my favorite pullover patterns, Relax by Ririko.
Wait, am I supposed to be smiling?
Yeah. I went sleeve-free. Well, it’s kind of a self-sleeve. No additional sleeves were added, but the under-arm increases of Relax’s design do create a drop-shoulder that covers some arm.
Smiling (but still flailing).
The log cabin body shows better when it’s not in motion. the Skirt-in-progress is a kit from Alabama Chanin that I am on fire to finish since I realized that it makes a perfect outfit with my NEW Pullover.
It’s hard to diagnose why I didn’t want to sew on the sleeves, seeing as how I had knitted them and everything. I think it comes down to a vague unease with how my seaming looks in this yarn: Sylph. Sylph is kind of a delicate melange: 1 thin strand of cashmere plus 1 thinner strand of crispy linen. There’s a fragility to seaming it that is belied by the sturdy, swingy fabric it makes when knitted up.
Or maybe I am just in a mood to show a little arm.
May I Rant?
Yes? Thank you, I’ll be brief.
Friends, we have to say NO to unnecessary or unwanted arm coverage.
My arms have the ordinary amount of jiggle implied by the date on my driver’s license. The British phrase “bingo wings” comes to mind. But even back in my giddy collagen days, I was a little self-conscious about my robust upper arms. I’ve said it in jokey self-deprecation, and I’ve learned to say it with pride: my foremothers pushed the plow. These, surely, are their arms.
I like the elegant, long line of a sleeve, and I don’t think it’s entirely about arm concealment. In the midst of the Basque-waist, bustier bodice craze in wedding dresses known as the early 1990s, a time when you could bounce a quarter off my triceps, my wedding gown had long, cuffed sleeves that would have been suitable for a Queen of England at any time in the past six centuries.
But in summer? Give me liberty, and give me a short-sleeved shirt. I don’t even care if the sleeve—short or capped or not-there-at-all—hits at the “right” spot. It can hit smack in the meaty middle of my bucolic biceps. Go ahead and snap my picture at the picnic. It’s an arm: get used to it.
Next time in Things Kay Is Done Fussing About: bathing suits. Come at me!