Month 4: Sewing

Let me remind you about my character: I'm disciplined and keep my word. Over four months I've picked up good but hard habits. I do small tasks immediately instead of adding them to lists. I exercise. I take creatine. I've significantly decreased my gossip intake. I wear more dresses, do my hair occasionally, write letters, and ask friends to go dancing (and not just the jumping, concert kind).

But for particularly egregious tasks—skills that are genuinely painful—I procrastinate as long as possible.

So, it was July 26th and I hadn't sewn a single stitch all month. I'm thinking, "Well, I said 15 minutes a day OR a finished garment, so obviously I'll let this hang over my head until I sit down, curse extensively, and produce something that technically qualifies as 'clothing.'"

I know what you're thinking: "Leenie, wasn't this the exact lesson from your first month's resolutions? Weren't you supposed to just do the nagging task instead of letting it fester? Wouldn't 15 minutes daily be simpler than promising wearable clothing?" And you'd be right. One hundred percent. But sewing is different. So yeah, I'm kind of a hypocrite.

That Saturday morning, I woke up absolutely resolved. Before 8:00am, action had been taken. I congratulated myself as I opened a dusty bag of sewing materials and spare parts and dug through it like a raccoon in a trashcan. To those who don’t know, I’m allergic to dust – so I would like some credit for risking life and limb for this resolution. I pulled out important-looking things: something resembling a pizza cutter, extra machine "feet", a manual. Soon I had an impressive pile.

I picked up the machine, ready to conquer sewing in the dining room.

Then I thought, "Hold on—this is your parents' house. Wouldn't it be rude to commandeer the dining room table?" Mind you, this has never bothered me before. My equipment pile traveled exactly two feet before settling in the middle of my bedroom floor. I'd have to trip over it if I wanted to use the floor like a normal person.

Eventually, I mentioned to my mother that I would like to use the table for sewing. Mum was frustratingly okay with it. In a last-ditch delay tactic, I announced, "I'm sewing a wrap skirt with stretchy material."

"You don't have the right needle." My mum responded.

"I don't care. The chances I make something wearable are low anyway."

"Don't mess this up by being stubborn."

And you know what she did? She called a sewing shop, confirmed they had the right needle, got in her car, and picked it up. Thanks, mum, but you missed the point: now when this garment looks patchier than Frankenstein's monster, I only have myself to blame.

Worse yet, mum became friends with the store manager, so now I have actual, actionable steps to learn sewing. How obnoxious.

I stared at the materials. Read the needle description. Read it in Spanish. Got up and took a lap.

Over the next days, I made steady progress—and I mean steady in the way that glaciers move steadily. I set up the sewing machine, excavated dust from every crevice (again, allergies), wound the bobbin, and convinced myself I was practically a machine maintenance expert. I cut out the pattern pieces (purists can judge me, but this was a cheap McCall's pattern, and I don't care). I cut out the fabric pieces, which proved surprisingly difficult and disappointingly didn't require the mysterious pizza cutter thing.

Then I started sewing, and miracle of miracles, it was going well. Only one curse word escaped—and honestly, I'm not even sure it came from me. Things were progressing so smoothly that I should have known I was being set up.

Right as I was about to finish joining the last major pieces, I made a crucial error: I forgot that sewing machine needles continue their relentless up-and-down motion if your foot stays on the pedal. The needle punched straight through my index finger.

Now, when I was a child, my friends and I used to thread safety pins through the dead skin of our calluses and then jump-scare adults by pretending we'd impaled our hands. Is this normal? Probably not. But it didn't hurt; it just looked dramatic. Peak middle school entertainment, really.

I tell you this, because I want you to know that the way I stuck a needle into my hand this time was NOT like that harmless prank. This needle went through my finger, blood began spurting (as much as a fingertip can manage), and it hurt. It hurt worse than admitting Mom was right about that needle and is especially galling since I'm convinced the wrong needle would never have betrayed me like this.

After thirty minutes of pressure, ice, and holding my throbbing finger above my heart like some sort of injured pledge of allegiance, I marched back to that sewing machine to finish the #*$&@! seam. Because I refused to let it beat me. And because of rule number one: if it takes less than ten minutes, do it now.

Even if you're bleeding.

Later, that needle broke. I won't pretend I felt anything other than smug satisfaction watching it get its comeuppance – though it is possible that the needle just decided to end it all rather than endure another seam with me.

After hating sewing so passionately, part of me wanted to be terrible at it. As if spectacular failure would vindicate my resistance, proving once and for all that I was right to avoid this particular skill. It's the same perverse pride of sports fans whose teams never win, or college students who brag about their cafeteria's legendarily awful food. There's honor in suffering through something genuinely bad.

The problem was, I couldn’t even be good at being bad. I wasn't good at being good, either—I was just... adequate. But nobody rallies around adequacy. I improved as the project went on, but my finished skirt wouldn't pass quality control at any respectable clothing manufacturer. Despite the mistakes, blood sacrifice, and literal loose threads, the skirt didn't look half bad. It's more flattering if you squint at it from across the room, but honestly, isn't that true for most of us?

Will I sew again? Probably. But next time: no stretchy fabric, no treacherous needles, and—subconscious, if you're listening—please desire something with fewer ruffles.