You knit too much.

If you live with a knitter and you celebrate Christmas, you're probably up to your ankles in yarn by now. If your knitter has not been at it since Labor Day at the latest, take her to the doctor. There must be something wrong.

My wife delights people (including me) every Christmas with handmade presents, knitted or crocheted with loving care. Like a home cook who has progressed beyond the basics, she takes instructions (patterns) and modifies them to her own preferences. Many she makes up on her own.

But I do worry about her knitting, and I'm not kidding when I say she's actually given herself knitting injuries and yarn callouses. Knitting may one day become a safer alternative to football, since people love to watch it but the injuries are less severe. She promises to stand for the national anthem.

She may be drafted by the Washington
Redskeins or the Tennessee Tatting.

Yarn crafters know they are addicted, and they seldom try to hide it. Some celebrate it. Check out Yarn Harlot or Yarn Addict or Mochimochi Land or the Crochet Crowd. They love their addiction. Some make a living from it. They may die in the alley with a skein under each arm, knowing how sad their relatives will be that they took the needle, but they don't care.

And that's why I fret a little.

One day I serenaded the lovely Mrs. Key thus:

You knit too much
You worry me to death
You knit too much
You even knit for my pet

You just knit
Knit too much

You knit for people
That you don't know
You carry your stash
Wherever you go

You just knit
Knit too much

You knitted in the car 
Till they made you stop
Then you knit a holster
For the traffic cop

You just knit
Knit too much

You knit your afghans
More than fifteen feet
You yarn-bombed
East Forty-second Street

You just knit
Knit too much

She didn't approve. She just sneered at me over her flying needles.

I have a feeling I'm gonna get some knitted lumps of coal in my homemade Christmas stocking now.