If sewing has taught me one thing thus far it is this: I am super impatient. Still.
When it comes to fashion I am all about the final walk down the runway. I hate shopping, simply because I don’t want to sift through the racks. And please don’t make me try anything on. Lord please no!
This disinterest in shopping coupled with my desire to look my best has been a constant battle throughout my entire adulthood.
Night and day from when I was a little girl and didn’t have to worry about either.
My Mom loved to shop. One of the many things we didn’t have in common yet enjoyed together. She would stay in department stores until they closed most Saturdays, and on Sundays I would romp around town looking like a baby doll. It was a win win for me then.
So now that I am good and grown, work in fitness (read: I wear stretchy pants and Nike’s 24-7) I would rather eat glass than hit up a semi annual sale. I rely solely on the advice of my fashion forward friends and online shopping to maintain my desire to look my best. True story.
But here’s the twist: while I never want to shop, I always know how I want to look. I know exactly where I want the hem line to fall, how the waist should cinch in just right and what hues look best against my complexion. Finding all these qualities in one garment? Nearly impossible. Well, until now.
It is literally the best feeling to be able to see what I want to wear, romp down to the Fashion District here in New York city, crank up my Singer and pump out the perfect look – custom made just for me.
Man, why didn’t I think of this before my sewing teacher left me here on earth alone?!
Every time I think about sewing I remember being a little girl and giving up on my kiddo homemaking lessons. Sewing a button seemed silly, I didn’t have the patience to thread my needle and reading a pattern was basically rocket science. So each lesson would end with a remixed version of, “Robbie you really should be more patient.” My mom new then and I know now.
So when I had the idea to make this little black romper to romp around in at AfroPunk in Brooklyn one Sunday this summer, I decided to fight harder for this virtue I so wish I possessed.
It literally took me 36 hours to make. I was so tired by the time the festival came (a few hours after the last stitch P.S.) that I wasn’t even mad when one seam near my crotch unravelled during the middle of a dance party on the lawn. Hello embarrassing.
So I came home (with my goodies peaking out) to the same attitude about sewing that I had as a little girl: nope, not for me.
Quitting sounded completely logical, but something deep down inside of me said, “just because you messed up, it doesn’t mean you should give up.”
And I didn’t. I fixed the seam, simplified the back (it was crazy strappy and uncomfortable before) and 24 more hours later I had a perfect black romper to romp around town in.
This process of my second sewing project reminded me how this second year without my mother has been:
While I may be romping around, and around. I am doing the best that I can. So when things unravel and quitting feels like the only logical option, I won’t give up. Focusing on the simple things and taking it one hour, one day, one garment at a time.