Piggy has taken a tumble (well, a running jump is probably more accurate) from the yarn diet wagon. No huge shocker there, really; I (and everyone who knows me) knew from the outset it was only a matter of time before I'd be writing this confessional.
That doesn't lessen the sting, however. I am really rather disgusted with myself, if not for the reason you might suppose. It's got nothing to do with how long it took to cheat on the diet -- I'm actually rather impressed that I managed to go almost a whole month without buying yarn for myself.
It's about how I cheated.
I've always believed that if you're going to do something -- even something bad, like breaking a diet -- you should do it right. Give it a 110%. Go big or go home. In for a penny, in for a pound. You see where I'm going with this, I'm sure.
It is on this point that Piggy's mere fail is elevated to a FAIL.
What do you reckon I bought?
A plus-sized sweater's worth of fingering weight qiviut collected by Inuit muskox hunters?
Perhaps a shawl's worth of naturally dyed lace weight cashmere spindle-spun by a women's collective from a decade's worth of harvests of hand-combed fibre from a tiny herd of milk-fed, free-range goats raised in a valley in Kashmir itself?
Right, ok, then, yes. Best not be too greedy. And remember, Piggy is pretty poor. So what about a few skeins of delicious Mmmmmalabrigo, then?
I'm afraid not.
Wait for it -- this is what I broke the diet for:
Yes, yes that is what you think it is. Dishcloth cotton and fuzzy acrylic.
Don't ask. Seriously.