Last Friday, I took a notion that I was going to teach myself to crochet.
I dug out an old "Learn How Book" that had belonged to my mom, and went through the assortment of her crochet hooks that I have kept. Made a trip to Michael's to buy crochet thread and a bigger needle --- oops, I mean, hook --- and I was off to the races.
Well, not exactly the races. More like the fumbling, bumbling, all-thumbs "slows." By the time I was holding the hook correctly, the thread on my left hand was too loose to work with. By the time I figured out where the stitch was that I was supposed to stick my hook, the "thread over" had fallen off the hook and the thread on my left hand was a mess. Etc. Etc. It took me five minutes to make one single crochet.
But I have made little practice pieces every night, and I'm getting better. I can make a single crochet, a double crochet and a half double crochet. I am learning how to increase and decrease stitches. I made my first practice granny square. After another trip to Michael's, I started on my first real project --- a dish cloth. OK, it's not glamorous, but it will be cool to have something I can say that I've made.
Why am I trying to teach myself this new skill practically on the eve of my 57th birthday? To spend less time on soul-sucking time wasters ... to cut down the number of Facebook games that I play ... to keep my hands and mind busy ... to learn how to make something pretty and useful.