In Like a Lion

March is the most wretched month. It’s long, devoid of three day weekends, and seems to sport the worst weather of any other month in the calendar. People are always crabby in March because they are sick of the cold, tired of being cooped up in the house and in desperate need of some sunlight.

Like everyone else I’m officially sick of winter, and the fact that garden catalogs have been arriving in my mailbox in great numbers since the day after Christmas is not helpful. Those of us in Zone 5 have a long way to go before planting time and even though I am a planner, the garden catalog people should not send me anything until mid March. It’s just a big fat tease and kind of mean.

About the only good thing that happens in March is my birthday. I’m going to be forty seven and realized that the old term “pushing fifty” pretty much applies now, though I will admit it’s kind of fun to say it. I have never been particularly hung up on how old I am, and I have a hard time understanding people who actually lie about it. Somehow having to remember a fake age seems like too much of a waste of energy.

The silk market bag is coming along, but I need to purchase a set of double pointed needles in order to do the decreases on the bottom; a circular needle is just not going to work. I am also working on a baby sweater which is almost instant gratification and a good thing to do between big projects.


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