body image, and the woolly pile of doom

I am not a size 2. Or a 4. Or even close. I don't think that's too much of a secret. This has been a maniac year (or two) for my health, and my weight and body shape have fluctuated with every change in prescription, waxing and waning energy levels, pain management strategies, and chocolate snack that has come my way. At the same time, I've become confident enough in my knitting to begin larger and/or more complicated projects-- from colorworking in the round to lace socks to knitting mittens or gloves or simple socks without a pattern and making both in a set look relatively the same. I've also begun sweater knitting and designing.

Here's where you get to meet part of the real me, and perhaps why I've been posting only sporadically lately. I've tried to keep my blog posts upbeat and positive, sometimes superficially so, because it would be more attractive to readers, right? Life isn't always like that though, so right now I'm just going to be honest. And while I won't be too depressing, it might not be entirely pretty.

I'm making a real effort to change the way I think and feel about my own body. I don't dress at all in my personal style because I somewhat-subconsciously believe I don't deserve to, or that putting off wearing a cute dress until I lose 10 lbs will be super motivating (in reality, for me, it isn't). I hold back doing fun social things because I know the entire time I'll be self-conscious about my body. And after months of blood tests and prednisone dosages, I've been diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis. I feel both relieved to have a name for what's happening to my body, but also emotionally defeated, scared for my future, and guilty for burdening select family and friends with my fears. And I feel like my body has betrayed me.

I'm tired of mentally feeling like I'm battling something. It's exhausting to think so negatively about oneself all the time. I'm not a size 2 or 4. I'm curvy and I'm short. I'm uncomfortable or in pain a lot of the time. But I have so many wonderful things in my life, and so many amazing people around me. I have coworkers who knit on Tuesday afternoons in the office with me. I have friends who listen to me anytime I need to talk, or decoupage Obama's face onto light switch plates and reminisce about college until 2am. I can "om" with complete abandon in my yoga class and step into warrior III with no problem. I can even outdrive my husband on the golf course in front of both our dads. And I can knit myself a sweater.

"The woolly pile of doom" is thus a pile of 3.5 unfinished sweaters I've begun and almost completed for myself. I've blindly knit at full speed until I get too far to frog them without cursing like a sailor, but just far enough to see that while the bust and waist will fit properly, the sleeves and torso will be a good 4-5 inches too long. I failed to plan ahead and heed my own measurements before beginning my projects, and as a result I have stubbornly packed them away rather than fixing them to fit me. This weekend I have a goal: to finish one of these sweaters. Here's my almost finished Tilted Duster, sans already-completed-but-4-inches-too-long sleeves, both before and after Mr. Y claimed the space as his territory:

I plan to rip back both sleeves and shorten the torso, because this thing hits mid-thigh and makes me look even shorter. This weekend I will claim my victory over my poor body image and knitted Matterhorn. And when finished, I will proudly model it, aching joints, curves and all!