It’s such a joy to spin on a wheel that’s functioning properly. After I finished a hank of yarn from my thrift store roving on the Traditional and felt confident that the new drive band would work, I cut the old drive band off of my Ashford Traveler and made a new one for it. I was a little less confident that my cone o’drive-band (as I’ve come to think of it) would do the job because my Traveler is a double drive but ooh it’s so much better than before.
I made a mistake in my last post. I said that I had one spinning wheel limping along. That wasn’t accurate. I was limping along. I know better than to let things go. I know to keep my tools in good repair. I have been fighting for so long with this stupid decreased sense of self worth because I allowed people to dictate to me what my priorities should have been, and where my money should have gone, and what I should have been doing with my time. That was a foolish thing on my part, but as so often happens when one is vulnerable it’s easier to take direction than to use critical thinking skills. It was my bad and I’ll own it.
The state of my favorite spinning wheel so accurately reflected my emotional state.
The funny thing is it’s when I’m spinning that I have time to repair, to fully do the math and use my critical thinking skills because the anxious fearful part of my mind is occupied. I realize things like I no longer have to watch what I say on my blog because my son is less than 6 months away from turning 18 and the threat of his father (my ex-boyfriend) trying to take him away from me has already come and gone. By the way, my ex is a tool; he told our nine year old child that he (my son) was an accident and should have never been born. I also have apologized profusely to my son for having him with the wrong man. My son accepted my apology.
Oh, and he was the one that several years ago stalked my blogs and wrote a nasty comment pretending to be my friend Steve and implying that he would tell all my new online friends what a bad girl I was. Like you can’t figure that out from the fact that I had a child out of wedlock? Or maybe from the domain name yarnporn.com? That I reached the legal age of consent in the nineties?
Slut-shaming is so 1980.
Personally I think it would be far more shameful if I were a drug dependent emotionally and physically abusive manipulative jack ass.
Typing this post out is just so therapeutic.
It’s been almost as therapeutic as spinning has been on a freshly polished and tuned up spinning wheel with a brand new drive band. I’m so relaxed and I have yarn to show for it.