And now, my friends, it’s time to talk about my bowels.

Only kidding.

The kind of fiber I need isn’t found in plants. I guess it could be, but the kind of fiber I’m lacking comes from sheepies. Last year, World Renowned Rheumatologist forbade me to ever knit or crochet again because he believed it would hasten the demise of my joints.

The orthopedists I consulted all concurred.

They didn’t so much concur as shrug their shoulders, say they probably agreed, and then tried to show me more pictures of themselves various R*dskins.  Are all towns with NFL franchises like this? My poor Tampa Bay Bucs probably don’t have doctors clamoring to claim them as their own. Someday, boys and girls, someday….

But where was I?

Fiber.

Right.

So sometimes I crochet little gifts for people, but I put away my (read: my grandmother’s) needles a few years ago after finishing a lap-blanket for my mom. I have this delusion that someday I’ll learn how to spin yarn. That doesn’t look like it’s very hard on the joints. In fact, it looks really fucking cool. And watching a spinning wheel spin is probably way more fun than watching the bureaucracy of Grad school spin around.

But again, I digress.

Go into a yarn store some time and ask if they know where you can learn how to spin. I dare you. I doubledog dare you.

I’d say that it gets so quiet you can hear crickets chirping, but that would be wrong. It gets really quiet for a minute and then you can’t hear the crickets chirping because everyone is laughing at you, including the crickets, who are rolling around on the floor gasping for breath and pounding all of their little limbs on the floor as they cackle at you.

What I’m trying to say is this: apparently the only place you can buy spinning supplies is at a wool festival, which works out because my boss and I attend a fair called the Maryland Sheep and Wool festival almost every year. I was sick so we missed it this year. Maybe next year when we go I’ll get up the nerve to buy a hand spindle…