Happy New Year…I think?
Not sure about any of you out there, but I can’t say the year has started with anything happy as of yet (I have things to look forward to, but I think the winter funk combined with other things isn’t helping). As I find myself turning to an assortment of coping mechanisms, I finally managed to get into the writing spirit and wanted to share another story to help pass the time for those finding themselves stuck within this unfortunate reality. I don’t think I’m the only one out there struggling right now, especially since I seem to be running out of ‘chutzpah’ to keep my entire family afloat. This whole ‘think positive’ thing is wearing thin and as a human being, I hope that whatever I have left will see me through.
I hope that you’ll find some sort of momentary escape from reality, or perhaps even be inspired to pick up a new coping mechanism to help pass the time. I will warn you, however, that there’s the possibility that I may even scare you away from it all, but I’ll take my chances. I apologize, in advance…again, to my wonderful mother who I am silently thanking right now for the introduction to one of my most loved outlets.
I plan on continuing my daughter’s and sister’s story soon. Their stories are relevant in the world right now and I need to be brave and finish telling them. So, if you’re waiting for those, they will be coming shortly and as always, thank you for your patience.
Quilting, an elegant art form known for its threaded intricacies with an affinity for infinite detail atop a painstakingly and delicately constructed mosaic of beautiful fabrics of all kinds. Such wonderful artistry carried out by some of the most creative and skilled hands on the planet. When considering quilting, some may think of serenity. Peace and creativity within the most tranquil and silent setting, a level of enlightenment and reflection all its own.
Well, I call bullshit on that picture…and you knew I would. Bull – shit. It makes me wonder if I’m doing it wrong…more than likely I am, but whatever. I’ll just keep doing it my way like the stubborn hard-ass that I am.
The very first time I was introduced to quilting, by my mother, I had this sort of picture in my mind of this disciplined and meticulous state, so sacred that only the most skilled could ever venture. In addition to that, I felt that you had to reach a certain level of enlightenment, taking several decades to achieve before one was worthy enough to enter the craft. Visions of wise, elder humans sitting together in a circle, quietly speaking and stitching while creating these beautiful works of art in a monastery like setting. Their hushed speech, a meditation, invoking a deeper level of consciousness.
Oh, my mother
A few years ago, Mother told me to take her to this quilting store not far from where I had been living at the time. Normally she and I would head off in the wee hours of the morning when she’d come for a visit and we’d flee like the gate was left open, heading for our favorite shops for some much needed retail therapy. But on this day, she made me stop dead in my tracks in the midst of our excited babbling about our newest and cheapest purchases. She insisted (coming from my mom that means I was TOLD) that we stop at this quilting store before heading home that day.
Shocking. My mother? A quilter? Naw, can’t be.
Sewing poorly…maybe, but quilting? She wasn’t old enough, nor wise enough as of yet because she was only in her 50s (I’m not implying that she isn’t wise, I merely meant that I didn’t think she had met the level of wisdom that these wise quilting octogenarians possess and I swear it’s like how we measure dog years, in that for every year we have, they have at least 20 more in terms of creative genius). Was she trying to tell me that she was nearing the final years of her life and seeking enlightenment beyond her current state? Was she sick (don’t answer that)?
I stared at her while attempting to figure out if she was joking. Disbelief poked me in the ribs and goaded along the thought of she’s gotta be shitting me. Quilting?…a store?…with her?…hell no.
Please, allow me to explain
Before you decide to shit on me, allow me to explain. My mother has these big dreams, rather I should say ideas, but she lacks the discipline to fully contemplate the journey. That and that alone can be a huge ordeal, and honestly, my mother doesn’t think small. I’m beginning to sweat and tremble…PTSD from past experiences has just been triggered.
Now, I love my mom and I’ll be honest and admit that I too possess this fanatical disease (its official diagnosis is coming, I assure you). It often begins with an idea, which rapidly expands into something much more monumental and intricate as time passes by…think 5 minutes, not days or weeks. Anything that lengthy is a definite hell no because that would require discipline…which is something we don’t have. So it’s more like mere seconds and minutes…ADHD? Possibly?
As the excitement behind the idea builds, all forms of sanity and proper consideration, which haven’t even been pondered let alone employed yet, have been tossed by the wayside and the decision to pursue at full force has already been made. Zero to hero in less than a nanosecond. She doesn’t care how we get there, we’re just going immediately there. Done. End of story.
Guilty by association
No ifs, ands, or buts about it, the endgame is the only game. Don’t ask questions, just get to it. Who defies their mother? Honestly?
I admit that I hate to be sitting in the room when this shit happens (can you say awkward?), but over the years I’ve come to realize that I don’t even need to be present to be enrolled in her foolery as it’s already been assumed that I will be taking an active role. I’m automatically guilty by association because she considers me her partner in crime, and for the record, I’ve never had the right of refusal because the mother card has always been implied which nullifies any and all objections…always. If you don’t know what the mother card is, this is it, she’s your mother, you are her child and you will do exactly as she tells you for the remainder of her days because she brought you into this world and she can take you out…if you don’t understand what this means, it’s a threat. Understand?
I thought you would. I’m certain many of you felt pain in my description above. For some of us, it hurts much more than others because our mothers are a bit more…how shall I say this…scary.
The superpowers that be
If you’re like me, lard help you if you defy your mama or unknowingly piss her off in any way (you can’t even think about being pissed with her because she’ll know…for those who don’t believe in ESP…you must not have a mama). If I do anything of the sort, and remember, I’m not religious, I’m calling a priest for my last rites. Respect.
It took many years to realize that my mother needed to be appropriately entertained so as not to invoke a higher thought process in regards to her creativity. Looking back, she’s never needed the likes of Pinterest to send her over the edge, she comes by it naturally. But now, in this day in age, I really have to watch out. Far too much access on the interweb has prompted me to write and appeal (beg, let’s be honest) to the creators of every single DIY site for a warning about inciting hysteria and unrealistic overachievement (to the point of people dying while trying to outdo one another like my mother always seems to aim for) in humans within the realm of crafting and home décor.
Honestly, all it takes is a photo. One stinking photo and the switch is flipped. She has an idea BUT, she can do one better…and often, she goes down the path of match-sies (as in why not apply the same method to everything within the vicinity of the one article you’re creating and make everything match).
Triggers invoking the acts of we
I’m sighing. Anyway, I finally realized the insanity of all of this when she saw roman shades. Yes, a type of blind or curtain if you will, that rises with the pull of a cord, neatly folding the fabric in perfect sections above the window it dresses. Fancy.
As soon as she saw the photo she instantly said (and this is the phrase that makes me shudder) that’s easy, we can do that as in, why buy them when we can make them. Ugh, it’s the ‘we’ that gets me. It doesn’t matter who she’s talking to when she discusses her ideas, that ‘we’ always seems to include me…and now, sometimes that includes my father and brother now that Lea is gone.
So, I realized during this episode of absurdity, that I was an automatic accomplice and that no idea was too small. On top of that, I was the fall guy and she assumed that I would be the planner and procurer of all tools, tutorials, and materials necessary. I’m apparently a mind reader as well. I can’t believe it took me how many years to realize my mother’s ridiculous obsession with her overachieving crafting endeavors and how I was involved with it all.
I admit, I was clueless and an enabler…was I?
I admit, I never had a clue as to what we were doing or just how the hell we were going to get there. You know, for kindness sake, maybe if I am the blind leading the blind, perhaps next time I should just lead us off a cliff…might be for the better. I’m kidding! Or maybe I’m not…
The day we spent scouring the city for glorified curtain material, felt like it would never end. Considering we only knew of two different stores, one with multiple locations, we actually covered a lot of territory. Different locations had a few different fabrics but they were all pretty much the same because it was a chain retailer. Also, and in addition to this, she’d added a couch cover to the to-do list because the dog she had shed and she planned to match the couch cover to the shades…gourd save us all.
Anyway, after an entire day of running from one end of the city to the other, my mother finally found the fabric of her choice. On top of this, she managed to wrangle one of the store employees to give her all of the necessary details on how to make these damned roman shades and a cover for her couch. I swear, I wasn’t with her the entire time and may have wandered off to peruse for my own sanity and cannot vouch if she took this lady hostage with or without threat.
I know you think I’m probably joking, but I assure you I am not. And now you’re probably wondering why I’m even telling you this story. Well, you’ll see.
The state of disengaged
Once this wonderful lady began cutting the fabric my mother needed and had rounded up all of the necessities, she was beyond kind enough to grab a piece of paper and begin explaining how to undertake this endeavor. And herein lies the issue with all of this crazy non-planning and one up-better-woman-ship, we were no longer just wasting our own time, we were wasting someone else’s. Once the lady began drawing diagrams after asking about the width of my mother’s couch, I knew my mother disengaged.
Disengaged you say? Yes, disengaged, like disengaging a parking brake or disengaging from your fiancé…err… whatever you’ve decided to disengage from is good enough for me. Anyway, by disengaging, I mean that she completely checked out from the conversation.
And how do I know she completely disengaged or checked out, well she’s my mother and I’ve known her and her looks forever. She has a mad look, a pissed-off look, a happy look, a bad boy chili look (that one is specifically for my dad), and well you know, many others. Her disengaged look is a unique one though, and if you don’t know her, you might not be able to tell. I can, but others not so much.
What disengaged looks like
When my mother disengages, her eyes sort of glaze over, and her blank stare firmly locks in place on whatever human is talking to her. Her mouth is slightly open, not quite enough for her to stick her tongue out like when she’s really concentrating (Lea also had this trait), but you can kind of see it just sort of on the verge of falling out of her mouth…think Jabba the Hutt flopping out kind of thing. Anyway, drool begins to pool at the corners of her mouth as she flies on autopilot, physically engaging in a nod on cue when someone prompts her to confirm. It’s the blank but completely disconnected from reality look without any thought process that gives it all away.
Anyway, this lovely lady goes through the whole process of explaining everything, with my mother nodding her head in agreement and at times vigorously so in staunch agreement (to what I don’t know because she wasn’t listening at all in the 30 minutes during that lecture). I watched my mother in complete amazement at how she managed to totally fool this woman with ease. I swear it’s a fucking superpower.
Once the lady was assured that my mother knew everything she needed, she rang her up, and off we went. The instant we exited the building, my mother stopped and looked me in the eye and said,
“Did you get all that?”
My mother, the rude ass
I was shocked but thought better of myself than to accuse my mother of completely zoning out and being a rude ass. I stared back at her, mesmerized by her complete nonchalance and proceeded to inquire as to how much of the tutorial she retained. She smiled at me deviously and said,
“Well, that’s what I brought you for.”
Seriously Mom?! I suddenly began to panic because fabric, well it ain’t cheap honey and there we were with a fuck ton of the stuff to completely do over a couch and the windows of an entire room and no idea how we were going to do it. I will honestly say, I wasn’t listening because I sure the hell wasn’t going to make all of this shit. What the fuck Mom?
Oy vey. Why? All that time and energy spent on gathering and learning and now we were just standing there, holding the bag with no plan. Great.
Why my mother has so many closets
When the time came to put it together, she turned to me for guidance (that was a dumb thing to do because I had no idea how to sew). Again, the blind leading the blind because I didn’t pay attention to the instructions, and of course my mother had a completely different idea compared to what I’d heard. It was a circus and I wasn’t going to be part of the act…no way. I left her talking to her sewing machine while she got to it. She insists that I did some of the sewing, but I wasn’t even in the room…I wonder what dimension of reality she was in during the process.
Basically, my mother wings it (nothing ever ends up looking like the photos she shares…far from it because she also cuts corners and devises her own techniques along the way) and I stand by feigning innocence while she does all of the damage. When she relays the story, it was a ‘we’ thing. Once she displays everything for all to see, I plead my case like a human on death row (I didn’t sew that ugly thing, uh un). Now that I have been doing my own thing for a while, I’m certain most believe me and not my mother…well, I hope.
The roman shades only lasted a few months in my parent’s living room and I doubt the bloody couch cover made it half as long. It was a complete pain in the ass and never fit the couch right so Mom finally balled it all up and shoved it into a closet (I told her she would’ve been better off with the damn plastic sheets and not allowing anyone to sit on the furniture…sound familiar?). I’m sure she still has all of this shit sloppily rolled up and shoved into another closet somewhere.
Reverting back to age 2…it ain’t all bad
So, you might be wondering why I mentioned this story when I began talking about quilting. Well, now I can safely go back to the day when she blew me away by telling me that we were stopping at this quilting place that fateful day many many years ago (this quilting shop is much more sophisticated than the fabric store we went to for her other projects but I guess we all gotta start somewhere). As I mentioned, my Spidey senses were tingling because I wondered just what the hell was going on in that crazy mind of hers. I believe the saying is, there are no such things as stupid questions, which is usually true if the person asking them is genuinely paying attention and learning from them.
Looking back, I should’ve asked, especially because of the intensity of her insistence on stopping there that day. And why it had to be that day with me, still eludes me (actually, I think I was the only one dumb enough to say yes and actually take her now that I think about it). It was like she had an itch she couldn’t scratch. She kept asking if we’d still have time to stop in as we went about our day…think 2 year old in the backseat of a car on a long journey asking if you’re there yet every 30 seconds type of asking.
All day, the tugging on my coat sleeve and innocent reframing of the question plagued me. I knew I’d have to concede because she was wearing me down. I knew that once we would get home, she’d be able to put her feet up and chill, but I was going home to care for 2 small children, so I had to choose my battles wisely.
Bargaining
Because I was smart, I knew I needed to conserve my energy which she was gradually sucking out of me by the minute. Retail therapy, recharge and fill my cup day, not exactly. I promised her that I’d stop, but in my mind I knew I needed to be proactive and protect the store employees from her engage/disengage antics. I didn’t want them to waste how many hours of their life and I wished to spare myself the embarrassment…see, I had a plan…it’s called a plan Mom.
Oh, and I swear my mother plays dumb sometimes when it comes to getting around the city so she can get out of driving. I can say with 100% accuracy, that she can tell you where the Arby’s, McDonald’s, and many a Walmart are in relation to the places my dad always stops to pick up building materials when they come to visit and do their shopping. That is another skill that she possess that suits her fancy when she wishes to employ it, so I shouldn’t have been surprised that she already knew where we were and where this quilt shop was located, long before we even got there.
The telltale signs were obvious, the intense, silent concentration with the odd murmur of assurance that we were indeed stopping there, the excitement that began to build when we were within a 10 block radius, followed by her restraint as she tried not to jump out of her seat excitedly when she saw the sign proclaiming that there was, in fact, a quilting store there and it was open for business. I see you, Mom. You’re not fooling me.
Excitement is an understatement
As I pulled up to the store’s door, my mother threw the car door open and ran to the entrance. I laughed when the seatbelt ran out of belt and snapped her ass back into the seat, prompting her surprise and a reminder to unbuckle before exiting. Obviously, I was a little behind because I hadn’t even stopped the car and put it into park yet.
Was she excited? I’m going to go as far as to say that yes, she was indeed excited. Pant pissing, jumping up and down in an I won the lottery type of excitement.
I knew, I KNEW I was about to have another roman shade/couch covering moment, and yet, I followed. I followed, but swore up and down that I was not going to fall for this shit again, but when I rounded the corner and saw her pull out a quilting magazine, I knew I was in shit. Oh my gourd, she had a picture with instructions…that she hadn’t read…of course you knew that and I knew in that moment, that this was going to be trouble.
I couldn’t run and I couldn’t hide
Ugh, this was going to be worse than the shades/couch covering incident. To make matters worse, she was like a deer caught in the headlights. She had no idea where to even start within this shop but she was raring to go. Double fuck.
I had a moment where I thought about going back and sitting in the car but I knew she’d just run out and drag me back in by the ear, kicking and screaming. I had a choice, be diplomatic and supportive, or revert to an immature and childish state. Why I choose the high ground most days, is beyond me.
Just once I wanna revert and see how the shit flies, just once. It seems to work for other people so why can’t it for me? One day maybe, one day.
Reasoning with insanity
I straightened up, pulled my big boy shorties up, and off I went to try and control my crazy assed mother. As I approached her, I saw that she was easily going to attract attention because she was holding the magazine open with her arms completely outstretched in front of her, twisting and turning it every which way like an overexaggerated steering wheel while trying to decipher the printed pattern. Oy, if only she read the damn instructions…gawd.
People who work in retail, can spot a distressed shopper from 100 miles away and my mother seems to emit that and attract them like a magnet. I swear, she doesn’t always need help, she just has that look if you know what I mean. Honest, I’m not trying to be mean, but she has that look about her…especially when she throws herself all in like I was explaining earlier.
Anyway, I quietly told my mother to put the fucking magazine down and try to get a hold of herself. She was behaving like a child in a candy store on an all you can buy shopping spree and she had no idea where to start. Yes, I can appreciate this feeling when in a quilting store now because I am much older and wiser. That’s all I’m going to admit.
Realizing the need of professional help
So, I asked her to hand me the magazine and show me what she had in mind. As she thrust it into my hands, she excitedly began to rumble on that she wanted to make this table runner and the only other thing I caught was stitching in the ditch…and why was I smelling chocolate? All I was thinking was Jeebus, calm the fuck down Mom, it’s a glorified table napkin. Please forgive me fellow quilters, for I have sinned…I didn’t know any better at the time.
I was overwhelmed and thought, we need professional help…well she needs professional help. The shop hadn’t looked very big when we pulled up, but it was huge on the inside and you could see bolts of fabric for what seemed like miles. There were all of these twists and turns into all of these strategically organized areas and I couldn’t believe the things they had in there. It’s ok, you can say it, I was in over my bloody head.
As we walked around the store, I managed to latch on to a lady who worked there. I had my mother half hanging off of me while I also had a death grip on the back of her jacket. She was all excited while I kept having to slap her hands and tell her no because she kept touching all of the beautiful fabrics, especially the expensive ones. Not only that, I had to keep a firm grasp on her because she kept trying to wander off to touch more things.
Asking for help is the first step
What didn’t help was that she’d bought herself a bunch of chocolate and had been eating it on the ride there…chocolate fingers and faces do not belong on fabric. End of story. I felt like I had my toddler with me. As soon as I had my mother in control and the lady’s attention, the first thing I blurted out while pointing directly at my mother while basically pulling her up by the scruff of her neck so she could see her was,
“Can you help her?”
That was a stupid question because I think the lady honestly thought I was asking her to actually help my mother, and not in a quilting sense. Once the lady got past the shock of seeing the chocolate smeared all over my mother’s face and hands and the deranged look in her eyes (I’m sure she sees this often), she finally noticed the scrunched and rolled up quilting magazine in Mrs. Sticky’s hands, and knew that we were looking for quilting help. I’m positive that my look of exasperation clued her in to my distress and she engaged in getting my super sticky mother the hell out of there before she caused any major damage.
Appreciation
When we finally pried the magazine from my mother’s confection covered hands while she was incoherently babbling about table runners and ditch stitching, I caught sight of the beautiful quilts that were displayed on the walls above. They were intricate, unique and absolutely mesmerizing and I realized that quilting was a discipline all its own. I knew that was something far beyond me and I stared in appreciation as the lady attempted to translate my mother’s conversation. Oh boy, here it goes…
I snapped out of it when we were pulled around the shop while this wonderful person took the time to gather the fabric necessary to pull off this alleged project. More quilts on more walls and I began to look at my mother and think,
“Seriously, you want to do this?”
I was thinking, this requires some serious talent and patience, none of which my mother nor I had but I was beginning to feel a little determined and inspired. Within a moment, I knew I would have to run interception because I knew exactly how this encounter at the quilt shop was going to end. Unfortunately, my realization came too late.
Hell begins to break loose
The immediate interruption of my reverie with the thoughts of the roman shade/couch cover fiasco quickly faded away because they were cut off by the sounds of explanation and instruction coming from the lady who was helping us. She was attempting to relay vital quilting information to my mother, who I was appalled to see, exhibiting the exact same glazed over look and excessive nodding that she displayed at the fabric store how many years earlier. The only problem was, this lady knew my mother had absolutely no clue and was bullshitting her acknowledgment of understanding. If you ask me, that lady’s bullshit detector was sharp.
Once I was fully aware of what was going on, and placed myself within their proximity, the lady began to explain it all to me. Ermagherd I wasn’t the one quilting and I had no fucking clue about any of it, nada…none. Her efforts were lost on me but I was too polite to interrupt to smack my mother back into reality, so the tutorial just kept on coming (looking back, she was an amazing teacher and I completely understood how quilting worked which made me feel a little more confident about trying it later on). To make matters worse, it was already 30 minutes past their closing time and I hate doing that to people.
As soon as the opportunity presented itself, I thanked this wonderful lady profusely for her time and expertise and got my mother the hell outta Dodge. I got her all tucked back into the passenger seat of my car with her bag of chocolates and her quilting shit clutched tightly to her chest like they were the most valuable thing in the world (I know that feeling). I got into the driver’s seat and started the car but before I backed out of the parking space, I turned to my mother and told her that I was no longer her crafting bitch and accomplice.
Never
I asked what she remembered, which of course was nothing and I shook my head angrily and said something that I probably never should’ve said. In fact, after this particular instance, I have become quite selective in using the term never. Why you ask? Because when you use the term never, there may be a chance down the road, where you kick yourself in your own ass because you defy your own definitive statement.
I told my mother that I was NEVER going to quilt. Like never ever. Insert ass kick here.
Mom thought it was funny and between shoving chocolates into her mouth, mentioned that it was good for me to learn because I’d probably end up quilting one day. That made me even angrier and I insisted that it was far too complex for me, let alone her. I insisted that quilting was never going to be in the cards for me.
Yup, I said that. No point in lying and denying it because my mother reminds me of it often. So yeah, I was wrong.
Surprising revelations
I was absolutely wrong about everything which was a very pleasant surprise. I did end up picking up quilting as a hobby. Self-taught in fact…not good or great, but I try and I have to say, what an interesting endeavor. Checks many academic boxes with plenty of problem solving and creativity to boot.
So, despite all of the adventures I’ve had with my mother, I managed to fall into this and take off running, while leaving her in the dust. Imagine that! And I take this shit seriously. So seriously, that I am currently sidelined because I’ve managed to re-injure a previous injury while quilting.
I know, you’re call bullshit on me now, but I swear, quilting ain’t for the weak. As I’d written about at the beginning of December, I said I was going to tackle my UFOs, and that is exactly what I have been doing to survive lately. Within this category, was a quilt I’d wanted to make for Lola many years ago and I recently pieced it together and finally started to quilt it.
Warning: Quilting can exacerbate injuries
The only problem with this quilt, and I admit it’s not really the quilt’s problem, is that I am a little too fearless sometimes and yes, do as my mother does and jump on in without thought. This bloody quilt, it’s heavy. It’s a layer of flannel with 2 layers of fleece.
This has unfortunately led to a world of hurt and something I really hadn’t expected from quilting. Am I doing it wrong? Probably. As I mentioned above, I thought this was a sanctimonious type of ritual, done with ease and tranquility but once I got into it, well let’s just say that I discovered that I do a lot of swearing, sweating, bargaining, and begging, even on the best of days.
Sounds like a helluva great time, doesn’t it? Yes, my alter ego Helga loves to come out and play and of course, my family avoids me like the plague when she makes an appearance. Within the past few weeks, Helga has taken up residence.
I’m impatient when it comes to healing
So yeah, quilting problems. And this injury is fun. It originally ran from the middle of my back, all the way down my arm and into my fingers (I suspect it originally started as a weight training injury before Christmas). Now, it’s mainly affecting the back of my upper arm…I feel like it’s the tendon that runs from my elbow to my shoulder that’s been injured. It’s some fucked up shit anyway.
At first, the constant burning and searing pain all throughout my back and arm was the biggest issue but now, it’s the messed up times that I notice that it’s still there. Like when I push down on the soap dispenser when I go to wash my hands, when I wipe a countertop, or when I have to pull up my bloody pants. Talk about a weird injury.
It’s been exacerbated by my attempts to simultaneously stuff my quilt through the throat of my machine while holding it up, quilting it, and trying to keep the bloody thing from puckering. There’s a lot of pushing, pulling, lifting, and spreading all at the same time. You know what? Our bodies weren’t designed to do that…take it from me.
Quilting: it isn’t what you think
So the next time you think quilting is a weak ass, old lady thing and you’re throwing some serious shade, call your damn self a priest to read you your last rites mother fucker. This ain’t no little bitch sport. It’s some serious shit. Respect the stitch, Karen.
As for me, this long-ass post has been a work in progress over a number of days because typing is difficult and painful. I won’t even try to explain what trying to hold a book up to read let alone hold up a cell phone to read or type on leads to…let’s just say that sleeping has also been affected. I know, boo hoo for me but I wanted to just say that quilting isn’t for babies. Respect.
Hopefully whatever I’ve done will heal quickly because I’m getting antsy and just want to keep on quilting. On top of that, left-handed wiping has really taught me to start thinking about training my non-dominant side to do some of the most very basic of shit because it’s absolutely ridiculous to have a perfectly capable limb that isn’t capable of doing shit. That, and of course, just in case I lose the use of or completely lose the use of my dominant hand.
Future fashion trends
Secretly, I blame my mother for all of this. It’s all her fault and if I’d stuck to my word about never quilting, I might not be suffering right now. Ha! I’m kidding, I’m happy I’m able to quilt at all…really.
Being able to lift weights again would be really nice too. Gotta work off some of them flaming caramels I gorged on over the holidays. That could be part of the struggle with the pants pulling up issue, now that I think of it.
Maybe I should consider sewing myself a bigger pair, and perhaps it’s time to resurrect the oversized pj pants of the past. Or how about a new twist? Patchwork pj pants with roman shade cords for a single pull, pull up pants…could be a new and exciting thing. Hello 2021, the newest fashion trend has just arrived, and you know you want some!
The Hopeful Pessimist 