Although I did (and still do) feel bad for one lovely lady from our party. While we were waiting to enter the club, she got upset that an 18-year old prepubescent called her ugly because a few of us girls were giving him and his “boyband wannabe” friends a hard time for cutting the line.

I didn’t think anything of it because for one: they were teenage twerps and two: I’m not accustom to exchanging BS in German.

Once I understood that these boys had an impact on her, it was already too late. Forgetting about the language barrier or maybe even the age barrier (I’m 7 years older), consoling anyone while the DJ drove needles in our ears with an awful mix of “Sweet Home Alabama – the remix”, Queen, Backstreet Boys, and Seeed was next to impossible. But above all, the wooden boards used to cover the hole where self-esteem is supposed to be were no where to be found. I used to be good at pulling friends out of the dumps, but now I’m lousy at best.

I wanted to tell her that people are especially mean and hurtful when we start to believe what they say. We give their hateful words power. I wanted her to believe that she is beautiful and gorgeous on the outside. It isn’t a lie or flattery. These asshole shrimps see it too. Only they used the cheapest methods to make themselves feel taller and stronger in her presence.

It is hard when someone feels so uncomfortable with their appearance. We all have at least a dozen times in our lives. But to let that uncomfortable feeling ruin a night of potential happier moments – that is just unfair. She wouldn’t even give herself a chance, which just lets those dicks win even when they are out of the picture.

After she’d had enough of me trying in vain to cheer her up, I got her to dance one time to a cute German song, Tanz der Moleküle by MIA., but on the condition that I’d leave her be. I don’t even know her that well and still it tears me to stand aside knowing she believes in something that without a doubt is untrue.

play

my first knitting projectI really don’t know what has come over me. I’ve taken up knitting. I’m pretty sure I don’t have a fever. I blame it on the size of my head. All of my winter hats feel too big on me. Thus the desire to learn has been waxing ever since I landed in Germany and discovered what a cold place Continental living can be.

Apparently knitting a hat on the first attempt is a little to overzealous. So I’ve started with a scarf, which I now call, the pea green potholder.

My grandmother is the only person who has knitted for me: a sweater vest as a kid with pretty Easter colors and later, when I attended UF, an orange and blue scarf. I had in the back of my mind that knitting is what you do when your feet don’t move any more or worse that it would mark a seal across my forehead that I’ve scooted a notch over towards domestication.

But more and more of my ‘modern’ girlfriends and even men my age, to my surprise, are knitters. And excellent ones at that. On random occasions, it came out that I had no earthly clue how to knit and there was always some wild-spirited someone to say, “Hey, I’ll teach you how, no sweat.”

So after a weekend of trial and error, I discovered knitting isn’t so difficult or mysterious; it doesn’t make a maid out of someone. You do have to have a knack for spacial orientation and a memory of an owl. I keep forgetting how many rows I perled versus knitted. Those who are good with knots would be especially mesmerized with knitting. Now I have this image in my head of a row of fishermen weaving their cast nets and a group of women knitting essential winter hats. There is value in learning to use your hands.