I can not sew. I can not sew a stitch. I don’t know what part of my brain is missing but something is not right. I have taken home ec. I have been shown by my mother in law. I have practiced on my own. I can’t sew with a machine. I can’t sew by hand. I can not sew and it makes me upset. I think I’ve mastered most of the other homemaking skills it takes to be a domestic goddess but if I ever got cast on Rupaul’s Drag Race (which would be odd because I have a vagina), I would be sent home first episode cause bitch can’t sew.
I think it has to do with my depth perception problem. The struggle is very real. I bang my hip bones on nearly every doorknob I walk past. Every time I drive, it’s like a guessing game. Am I in my lane? Could be?
It might also be my lack of attention to detail. I’m a big picture kind of a girl. Details bore me. I wish it weren’t so. So does my husband. He’s very detail oriented. That’s why he bleaches my hair for me. It’s also why he sews my clothes should I get a rip in them. I can sew my own buttons on, not to brag. It’s the straight line and the uniformed stich that get me every time.
When I was in middle school and everyone was taking home ec, I did okay until we got to the sewing part. My apron was so fucked up it looked like Picasso’s interpretation of an apron. One of the other girls in my class was complaining about how bad her apron was. She looked at the apron I was making and shouted, “Oh my God, yours is worse than mine!” Then she realized how badly she had just insulted me and we both burst out laughing. I couldn’t deny it. Mine was worse than everyone’s. And I was trying. That’s the sad part. She signed “yours is worse than mine in every yearbook we had until I eventually changed schools. It was one unforgettable, fucked up apron.
I have a pair of pants I bought from Express a few years ago. They are cute as hell and they fit me really well also, except for that they are too long. For whatever reason these pants are so long that even my highest heels won’t keep them off of the ground. I tried to hem them all by myself. I watched youtubes about it, I ironed the hem first, I did all the things you should do and than I sat down, needle in hand, and I fucked those pants up so badly that taking them to a tailor is no longer an option. They would laugh me out of their shop.
One year I decided that I was going to really commit to learning to sew. I bought a very cheap sewing machine and I got to work. My mom, the eternal optimist, bought bags of fabric for me to make scrub tops for her with. She’s very into holidays and she was so excited that I could make her themed tops. Spoiler Alert, I made zero tops. I couldn’t even make a potholder. I had to just give up.