Crochety Old Lady

Yarn over, pull through.
Yarn over, pull through.

The index finger of my left hand is throbbing and with each search for a spine, I can hear the wool moaning as I push the needle through.

I can hear them talking about me in the other room, but their words mean nothing. I just need to finish this last row and then I will stop. Okay, just one more.

I have become an old lady. I catch sight of myself in the mirror, glasses falling slightly down my nose, my hair in an untidy bun that I would not be caught dead in outside of the house and the crocheting needle in my hand. To be fair, it's not like I am crocheting a scarf (though I probably will at some point). To be even more fair, this is not a project of my choosing. The penguin that I made earlier was. This one Grant asked me to make. He caught sight of the pattern while I was browsing and decided that it was a must-have. He even took me to Birch's this morning just so that we could get the wool that I would need to make it. It's a Mario One-Up Mushroom, which brings out the geek in him and lets me indulge in my new hobby without feeling too ancient.

I started learning to crochet at the end of January. It was a tactic to prevent boredom in an office where browsing has been forbidden and no tickets were coming in to be answered. The office was dead quiet. With no emails to reply to, no phonecalls to answer and no browsing allowed, we resorted to other activities that hadn't been banned. While some read and some scrolled through the applications on their cellphones, I crocheted. It would be crochet a row, refresh the screen to see if there are any new emails. Crochet another row, refresh again. It was great practice, getting me faster and faster and crocheting. It also meant that the F5 button on my work computer may be dying some time soon.

Within a week, I was ready to try my first project. I finished it in a day. A little wonky, not quite perfect, but still a penguin that I could be proud of and one that my goddaughter adored. I finished the penguin around 4pm and immediately started on the next project, which I finished the next morning. I could hardly wait to start on the next one!

The only problem with crocheting in Grahamstown though is the lack of supplies. Sure, there are places to get wool, to get hooks and even to get stuffing. But things like felt and safety eyes are mysteries to the Grahamstown haunts and practically impossible to get unless you want to order them online (which I do not). Instead, I resort to sewing eyes and buying beads to make the best of what I have available. Not quite the same, but they will do.

So, if you are bored and looking for something to do, considering crocheting. It is not just for old people and is actually highly addictive once you get into the hang of it, especially when you discover sites like Ravelry and all the cool things that you can make with the patterns that you find there.

What strange hobbies do you have?

Eighteen?

My whole life I have dealt with people telling me that I look younger than I am - from being asked up to six times for my ID at Grand West Casino, to being checked at clubs or refused entry point blank. And then I arrived in Korea.

Being in Korea was a nice change for me. Being surrounded by people who look younger than they are led to people being shocked that I was actually around the age they thought I was. There were always ooh's and ah's whenever I told my students my real age (even when that age was in Korean and was technically two years older than my actual age) and they realised that, yes, I was that young! The idea that I should be older was also compounded with the number of foreign teachers who arrived, most of whom were upwards of 24 (Western) years old. This meant that I was always hanging out with people who were at least two years older than I was, most of whom were even older. Whenever my age came up, there would always be a comment along the lines of: "Oh, right... I forgot you were young."

By the time I came back to South Africa, I was used to people thinking I was older than I actually was. This is why it came as a bit of a shock on Thursday when I was test-driving cars to have the salesman climb in behind me and say: "Now, young lady. You do have your license, right?"
Well, of course! Why else would I be climbing into the drivers seat? Why else would I be buying a car? Why else would I... oh, never mind. So he thought I was a high-school or early university student. So what?
Most of the sales reps that we spoke to commented on what a lucky girl I was to have my dad buying me a car. And I am lucky. But I am also contributing. This is not one of those instances where a daddy buys his little princess a car and pays for her petrol, insurance, licensing, etc. I offered to contribute half and pay the rest off, but my dad has luckily offered to help me out in the interim. Anyway, enough with that rant.

I was reminded of the fact that I look young once again yesterday when I went with my friend Ashlea for a massage. We arrived at the place and were escorted to the back where we were each offered a glass of wine.
"You're having one too, right," the masseuse, one of Ashlea's friends, asks.
Before I can answer, her friend chips in.
"How old are you anyway?"
I think for a moment, still used to replying in Korean age and also around the corner from my birthday, before replying "23."
"Really?"
"Yeah."
"Really?"
"Yes. Why? How old did you think I was?"
"My age!"
"And how old are you?"
"18!"
Now, I know that I look young, but I really didn't think I looked that young. I like to think that I have grown up a bit from the years of being refused entry at clubs, but apparently not!

In any case, my humiliation at being called 18 was shortlived, as that evening my family came over for a braai.
"Lara," my aunt exclaimed when she saw me, "you're looking so grown up!!"
This sentiment was shared many times over the night as my aunt, cousin, grandmother and grandfather all discussed how much better I was looking - thinner, taller (though Daron may disagree on that point) and generally more mature. Mom was quick to point out, however, that she too had recently had a bit of a compliment.

You see, when I went to the bank last week, the teller took one look at my drivers license and asked, "Do you have an older sister?"
"Yes," I said with what must have been a confused look on my face. "Cherie. But she doesn't bank here."
"No, not Cherie," she replied. "Beverley Salomon."
My mom rejoiced when I told her the tale, marvelling in the compliment, but I was quick to pick up that it wasn't such a compliment for me! Do I look old enough to have a 50-something year old sister?!

So my question for you today is this: Would it be better for people to think you are older, or for people to think you are younger?