Obsession. Addiction.

What I am about to share is a true story.

Like most obsessions, it started out innocent enough.

"Just this one time," she told me.  "I just want to try it.  I just want to do it to see what it's like, to see if I like it."

I didn't pay much mind.  After all, it all seemed so passe, something she could do on her own.  Something she didn't need me to do.  She had done it in her younger days, for fun.  We both thought she had grown out of it, but now, in adulthood, after becoming a mother, the old itch was back.  She was craving it yet again.

Was it the need for tactile stimulation?  Having something in her fingers?  Or maybe it was because it helped her get in touch with her deeper self?  A strange, twisted sort of meditation?  Either way, I tried to look at the good side of it, and figured that like many other things, it would be a fleeting interest.  The flavor of the week.  Christmas break would end and we'd all go back to work after the holidays and forget about it.

I was wrong.

I started noticing needles around the house.  I yelled at my wife, cursing her for being so careless.  "What if I poke myself with one of these needles?  What about OUR KID?  Have you thought about her?"  I couldn't believe that Marie could be so clumsy as to leave needles right out in the open.  That was just the beginning.

She started spending money.  Sometimes it was beyond our means.  I couldn't keep up with her habit.  Every time I turned around she had that look on her face, painfully asking me if she could just spend just a little more.  "How much is enough???" I would counter.  "Please, I really need this.  I, I know you don't understand, but please try."  This was the woman I loved.  I knew I was being manipulated, but this was still the one face on earth that I loved and cherished.  The mother of my child.  In the end, I wanted her to be happy.  I caved again and again.

And then, one day, in the closet -- I found her stash.  I couldn't believe how much there was.  How could one person require so much?  How could she go through it that fast?  I was scared.

Then she started making it herself.  Experimenting with chemistry formulas that would make Walter White blush.

Now, it's out of control.  My wife is not just a knitter.  She's a spinner, too.  What started out as knitting a simple sweater over Christmas break, turned into a new hobby.  A hobby turned into an obsession.  An obsession turned into an addiction.  Pretty soon knitting wasn't enough. She wanted to learn how to spin fiber.  That's basically the act of taking bags of dyed (or undyed) wool and spinning it into yarn.  Like the old story of Rapunzel.  Except instead of being locked up in a tower full of hay and turning it into gold, my wife occupies our living room with bags of beautifully dyed fiber and turns it into amazing yarn.

First she bought one spinning wheel, a starter.  Then she yearned (yarned?) for the Cadillac of spinning wheels.  She found one, for sale at an incredible price, and I could see how much she really wanted it.  I got it for her, and I honestly believe that I can never do wrong again in her eyes because of it.  She loves that thing almost as much as me.  Almost ...

Then spinning wasn't enough.  She started dying wool, too.  We had to speed up our trip to San Antonio so we could get here a few days earlier than planned so she could attend a fiber dying class at the Southwest School of Art.  She toys with the idea of doing it full-time one day.

I have been on yarn crawls.  Newly wet spun wool hangs drying in my shower.  A significant portion of my income is spent on yarn.  I lose her to hours of blogging about yarn.  Portions of her fiber stash occupy just about every room in the house.  I even have yarn in my freezer.  She spends more time on Ravelry than I spend on Facebook.  She is ... a fiber junkie.

Don't let this happen to you, blog friend.  Know the risks that are out there in this big scary world.  One day your partner may be assuring you that they just want to trying knitting your kid a sweater.  The next day you may not recognize the life that you once led.