I wasn't a Boy Scout.
I'm not a sailin' man by any means.
I like slip on shoes.
Face it. I'm not a knot head.
In fact, you might say I'm knot tying handicapped.
Show me a knot. Step-by-step. Slowly and carefully. I'll follow along, seemingly aware of the process.
I may even remember the knot. For awhile.
Then, quick as you can say, "Perils of Pauline," I'll have forgotten it.
My Father-in-law has a good head for knots. He ties some doozies that inspire awe and reverance everytime I watch him tie down a load in the back of his pickup, or secure some hard won auction items to the floor of his trailer.
My Dad was pretty good at knots too. I think my brother is just as impaired as I am, so that helps some.
The other day, my 6-year old taught me how to braid her hair. She grew weary of the "pony-tail" (single), "doggie-ears" (double pony tails), or the "just-worn-straight-down" styled varieties that my male hairstyling genes are capable of doing.
She felt I needed to expand my hair styling repertoire so... guided by the loving and patient hand of C, I dove into the dreaded braid.
Even though my knot tying impaired brain battled furiously in it's efforts to guide my stubby sausage digits to do the wrong thing, I eventually got it.
Now I just need lots and lots and lots of practice. Good thing I have two daughters.
Next up, the French Braid. I may need to go back to Grad School for that one.