The time where I wander through all the tony boutiques in the city silently judging their seasonal knitwear offerings. “Made in China” and “100% polyester” written boldly across the tags like they’ve no shame at all. To further add to insult, usually you’ll flip these same tags over to discover a truly optimistic sale price. I’ve pretty much reached the point where I basically don’t buy knitwear at all because I know I can make it myself out of materials I know I will love, even if it doesn’t necessarily end up less expensive. (I’m looking at you, Anthropologie.)
There’s a balance that you figure out, as a handknitter (this is probably true across most crafts). Often it’s the dreaded “pick two” triangle. You know the one.
The more I learn about ethically-sourced high-quality wools, yarns, and notions, and the more I improve my skills, the more I’m (obviously) wary of stuff in stores. Does “handknit” actually mean knitted by hand? Or that someone’s hands turned on the knitting machine? Okay, this hat may be handknit, but it’s also 100% cotton, and that’s not going to be particularly helpful in rainy, 30 degree weather. A handmade local cashmere baby onesie may technically be worthy of a three digit price tag, but is it really worth it when you’re tiredly hand-washing stains out of it for the umpteenth time? Although, let’s be real, if you bought a $xxx cashmere anything for a baby, you’re probably not the one doing the hand-washing.
I think these are important things to consider, especially during primo gift-buying season. Should have written this post in time for Slow Fashion October last month. ┐(￣ー￣)┌
Anyway, to get back to Anthropologie, can I talk about how much I want to turn this rug into a Guernsey-style knitting pattern? Because it is MUCH.