Hamlet was talking about sleep, of course, but I couldn't help but notice that his analogy applies quite literally to this sweater:
Poor thing just spilled its guts. "The vomiting Sleeve! Film at eleven."
I promised myself that if I could knit to the end of the skein I was using on the sweater middle that I could take a "break" by working on a sleeve for a while. No lie, people, I am drowning in the Stockinette Ocean. I think I'm getting arthritis. So I made it to the end of the skein, and without even attaching a new one, I gleefully flung the whole works aside in favor of the sleeve. Nothing like a change of scenery for motivation. Okay, the scenery is pretty much the same, but the rows are shorter, and some of them have increases.
Increases is right! The thing was growing at an alarming rate, but not in length - in circumference. Note to self: perhaps the sleeve increases need to be farther apart? Nah, I'll just block it firmly. It'll all come out in the wash. Now it looks like a jam funnel - totally weird. What in the name of all things linty is going on here? Note to self: You have obviously stretched the thing somehow, you are going to have to block this sleeve aggressively. Another half inch goes down and it's even worse. Note to self: sleeve blocking will have to be brutal. Now it's starting to feel like a horror movie: something is wrong, and I can tell by the theremin music in the background. Just to reassure myself, I check the needle size. Yeah, I know this is the size three. I can tell because the number "3" is rubbed all the way off. See, I'll even pull out the size guage and prove it...CRAP. It's a size 4. That's when the sleeve threw up. Projectile yarn. Spewed like a frat boy on a Friday night.
There, there little sleeve. You'll feel better in the morning. Want a cool washcloth? Yeah, me too.