Tuesday, November 8, 2011
encased in a brown vinyl cover, relics of decades ago perfectly preserved, down to the tube of oil still leaking. a pretty ol' singer, in a sweet shade of cream. the beast was heavy, but i lugged her onto the kitchen counter. with a few minutes of home to myself, i plugged it in and the machine lit up like the highway at midnight.
and i read instructions. i watched youtube videos. i sat and stared at the thing and thought to myself, if i were a bobbin thread, how would i pull myself up? it seemed easy enough, and the fashion designers online made it looks as easy as frosting a cupcake (which can, it turns out, also be kind of hard).
i tried for hours. robert came in and sat beside me. pablo barked at my heels and the sun finally set on the day and my seamstress dreams. i went to bed discouraged. it's such a lovely thing to sew. so domestic and pretty and dainty and all things soft and warm and comfortable in this world. and there i sat, in a seventy-year old house where many a lacy pillowcase had been made. my big knuckles and impatient heart two giant stumbling blocks.
but the thing is, i may never learn. my hands may always be more equipped for washing dishes over a sink of hot water. for lugging around a heavy pup. for making soup and biscuits and painting desks cherry red. besides, whoever decided to make needle eyes so blessed small obviously didn't have a desk job in front of a computer. because those two just don't jive.