Things seemed to be going well. Really they did. It was a new (to me at least) way to make a gusset and it seemed to be going off without a hitch. I finished the first Greenhorn and grafted the toes. It was the prettiest and least fussy graft ever. I should have known something was up. I soaked it, blocked it, and hung it to dry. I had tried it on several times during its construction, and had no reason to think anything was wrong.
But there was.
It pulled, just a little bit, right across the point where my leg turns and becomes my foot. Just a bit. Just a little tiny bit. Just enough to be maddening. I could wear it. But I knew I wouldn’t. I held it. Stared at it. I tried it on again. It was still just the tiniest smidgen too small. I swore with an enthusiasm and verve not usually heard except in the presence of eighteenth century pirates. I tried it on one more time. It was still too small.
So I ripped.
Actually, I picked out the lovely graft and tried to convince The Boy to pull the end. I wanted someone else to do it so as to spare me the heartbreak. He (likely wisely) declined this rare opportunity for authorized knitwear destruction. His protestations were most amusing. Eventually I succumbed and ripped it myself – all the way back to the gusset.
I added four rounds (and thus four more gusset stitches) and am now most of the way back to the toes. I’ll end up with a much better final product (ya know, one I’ll actually wear as opposed to one I’ll let languish at the bottom of the sock basket), but I still feel the tiniest bit slighted. It will likely pass once the pair is done and in the rotation, but for now, I am not amused.