A Puzzlement

As in, "There are times I almost think I am not sure of what I absolutely know."*

This is one of those times that I feel great empathy with the King of Siam. I've been, and I use the term advisedly, the beneficiary of some revelations about Marc's sweater. Flush with confidence, I decided to reveal to himself the state of his -- not incipient, perhaps eventual -- hand-knit sweater-ness. It was blue. It would be (once I got the knitting and my nerve to the point that I could cut it) a cardigan. I was delighted with myself. Expectant. Ready for his awe, wonder and praise. What do I get?

"Isn't it kind of - dark?."

Excuse me? Isn't navy blue, by definition, by it's very existence, dark? Have you ever heard of "light navy blue"? Of course not. If it's light navy blue it's something like "faded denim" or "cobalt" or "Copen blue" or "cerulean" depending on how "light" it is. Dark, indeed. I'll give you dark, sport.

Recognizing his error, the impending breakdown in diplomatic relations, his imminent verbal annihilation, he back-stepped pretty quickly. This would not have saved him, except in the course of things he revealed that the extremely ugly olive green and red sweater that I had stolen from his side of the closet and set aside for Goodwill had migrated to his office and he was actually wearing it in public. This is a sweater of such cheap manufacture, such skimpiness, such shoddy wool, that it looked threadbare when it was brand new (and no, I didn't buy it for him; it's not my fault). This sweater achieved new and appalling heights of knitted hideosity the like of which I have not seen in lo, these many days. And this is what's living at his office. The realization is all that saved him. Poor me, I have to knit another sweater.

Deciding that there was no point in assuming I knew the man didn't keep me from paging through pattern books. Clare and I between us found the ideal cardigan, his perfect sweater, in Rowan's Knitting for Him.

I didn't and don't care for the variations in cable size, but figured that would be an easy alteration. So, despite all prior experience, and fully expecting to have my selection validated, I presented him with the book and told him to pick out his sweater.

He chose this one.

Except he wants it in one color. Without pockets. And maybe with two cables running up both sides of the front. In this yarn,

of which I haven't enough because I bought it for my brother's sweater and which is, incidentally, the exact same yarn in the exact same color used in the sweater Clare and I picked out and that he doesn't like. I can't help but notice that he chose the only cardigan modeled by the greying, balding, short-haired guy with glasses.

The male mind - truly a dark and befuddling place.

* Oscar Hammerstein, The King and I, 1959.