I don’t strictly need to count rows on my fuzzy pants. The pattern that I put together for them is written in terms of “knit [stitch pattern] for [length],” but I’m just the kind of person who counts things.
I was the kid in the grocery store who had to step on each set of colored tiles an equal number of times with each foot. I could step on the cracks and color changes, but I had to make sure that my other foot stepped on a similar piece of tiling, too, with each color lining up with the corresponding part of my foot. I even went so far as to allow myself to walk normally through the store, but I had to even things out before we left, which made for some strange footwork on the way out the door. I would chant to myself (in my head, of course) the patterns: One left half blue half white, one right blue, two left green, two right white. I always kept track of everything, even when the list seemed impossibly long.
I also memorize numbers. Phone numbers, credit card numbers, library card numbers, and the series of temperatures that the weatherman on TV says. I can’t help it. I actively tried to lessen this power in college, because it was creepy that I knew my roommate’s and several random friends’ student ID numbers, and now I only remember numbers when I actively try. I succeeded in turning off the part of my brain that copied down every number encountered without conscious effort on my part.
Unfortunately, this means that I no longer know without conscious effort what row of knitting I’m on. I’ve actually resorted to writing things down now. Which is ridiculous because, did I mention? I don’t have to count the rows on this pattern! Why am I still counting? Because I’m just the kind of person who counts things.
Obligatory (slow) progress photo: