Towards the end of a day to end all days, I wondered whether the two SSK I had knit instead of the k2tog along one side of the gusset of my charade sock bothered me that much. I decided that since I really really love this sock, and since this was going to be The Sock That I Finished, my First Pair of socks, and all those other noble ambitions with which I had imbued each stitch, that they did. I wanted this sock to be perfect, so I'd just tink back four rows, reknit them, and sail merrily into the foot with an awesomely neat little line of decreases to frame my first* short row heel.
The problem was, due to a full-on no-good bad day, I attempted this in the pub with a comforting pint of Doom Bar on hand. The pub was quite dark. The Doom Bar was very good. The knots that hold my skeleton in place relaxed sufficiently for me to lift my head and unclench my jaw a bit. I began to concentrate more on my companion than on the sock. I then realised that I had dropped one of those YOs, and that fixing them last time had elicited the suggestion that knitting might be a bit antisocial. Since I had only just begun uttering complete sentences rather than monosyllabic snarls, I decided instead to unknit a few rows, since in theory I can do this and talk at the same time. I noticed that the unknitting had created two more dropped YOs.
I came home, I unknit a few more rows, I cried (this was at the end of One of Those Days, remember). I ripped back to before the heel flap, realised that I would never ever be able to pick up those pesky dropped YOs in a remotely sensible way, cried some more and left the sock sitting on the floor.
The irony of the fact that one of those noble sentiments was to worry less and knit more, accept my mistakes and stop letting my inner perfectionist rampage over everything else, is not lost on me.
*Sock Incomplete I at this point still being known by its childhood name, Prototype.