We've all been there: knitter meets wool, knitter falls in love, knitter yells at everyone to "shut up, I'm counting" and insists on "just one more row." Patterns pile up so fast in our Ravelry libraries that we can't tell which ones we bought and which ones we just put there because someday we might buy them. They fill up folders on the computer, the phone, and the tablet, and let's not talk about the boxes stashed in the you-name-the-weird-storage-area-no-one-will-ever-find (possibly including you, clever knitter, which is enormously frustrating but oh, so true).

We fell hard, promising handknit gifts to everyone; eating, talking, dreaming, and breathing, knitting. We were a yarn bomb, baby, and all our friends knew it because all our friends were knitters, it being just too painful to explain to anyone else why "sheep and wool festival" was not only a real thing, but a wildly exciting event around which to revolve one's social schedule.

And then, the romance was gone. For some of us, it left slowly, or at least it felt like it, because if you're still buying yarn, you're still kind of knitting, right? Some of us even continued to knit, though it felt more like just making something that needed to be made, rather than the thing one would most like to be doing, given the choice.