We were crossing through the Artsgarden at Circle Center when suddenly my head snapped up on its own accord. Believe me, when you reach my stage of the disease, your eyes automatically find the knitting-related paraphernalia long before your conscious brain even registers it. It's kind of like the way blind newborn kittens automatically find their way to their mothers to nurse.
Acutally, it's exactly like that. Only I'm not blind. Or newborn. Or a cat. And I
Not for sustenance, anyway.
So actually, it's nothing like that. But it is an instinctual thing. "Ooooh. Knitting!"
I think my exact words were "Knitting. Look. Knitting needles." And then some Lennie Small-style laughter. My family--who are used to me having the attention span of a magpie with ADHD when it comes to knitting--just kept going, of course.
But I stood under this mobile, forcing other people to walk around me as I looked up in wonder. I mean, how cool is this? It's knitting needles and patterns and yarn, hanging from the ceiling of the Artsgarden!
After a bit, I decided to move. Not because of the grumbling of the people who had to walk around me as I stood there, looking up. And not because everyone had gotten so far ahead of me that they noticed I was missing and had to come back and see what had happened to me.
But because I was struck by the visual thought of what would happen if an earthquake struck at that moment. Imagine me, a human pincushion, skewered by hundreds of knitting needles. Irony! Never mind that the greater danger would be the collapse of the Artsgarden itself--a glass and steel structure suspended over one of Downtown Indianapolis' busiest intersections.
Oh yeah. Scoff if you want. It could happen.
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