There I sat in my favorite spot on the couch. The kids were in bed, The Man was picking out a movie, and tea was steeping in my cast iron pot in the kitchen. I let out a contented sigh as I reached for my knitting bag. As I pulled out my current project, a wool confection pleasing to hands and eyes, something fluttered in the air to my right.
Terror struck my heart. I froze, my heart pounding in my chest, and I clutched my wool a little tighter. A lot tighter. My knuckles were turning white. Then I saw it again, this time higher up, showing up white against the dark brown painting on the wall.
I uttered some vague cry for help which alarmed The Man. But, being the awesome husband that he is, he quickly understood when he also caught sight of the fluttering demon. My hero jumped into action and pulverized that evil fibertarian with his strong hands. Pulverized. I cheered and swooned. I love The Man.
But the threat was not altogether gone. Not in the least. Now it was my turn to jump into action.
I leaped from the couch, tea and movie forgotten for the time being. I ran to my stash and started tossing. Literally. I searched every ball, every skien, every scrap. Suddenly I was a maniac, frothing at the mouth, itching for the kill. Moths beware!
I found a few suspicious bits of lint (eggs?) and some interesting blobs that could have been cocoons (more lint?) but no worms ravenously consuming my merino. No tell-tale holes in the alpaca. Nothing alarming at all.
So finally I returned to my spot on the couch (after finding the tea way oversteaped and starting a new pot). The man had landed on a good movie and my knitting was still there, waiting for it’s next row. I looked through my bag and inspected my project with the precision of a … well, a……. ahem…. a very precise thing. Nothing. I started knitting, remembering to get my tea after a few minutes, and enjoyed a movie with The Man.