Standards, And How They Set Goals

I come from a larger family (four children), which meant that there was a lot more conforming to house standards and a lot less doing whatever the heck I felt like. One standard that was set was for cleanliness, and to a lesser degree, neatness. I bet you think those two are the same! But they're not. Cleanliness requires that you scrub ... and wash ... and wash, and scrub. Neatness requires that you put things away.

After many decades of fighting the yoke of cleanliness, I've finally succumbed to it -- after all, there's something to be said about living free of dust, mold, bugs, and sticky filth. But neatness? Well, that was never drummed into me. But I did have a special appreciation for arranging things nicely, and having a place for everything (and everything in a place).

Lately, life got me down and I let my room go to the wrong side of the neatness barometer. But somehow, today, I can see more of my floor than I have in a long time. And I feel inspired! Inspired to ... sew. Yep. See, most of the crap that's turned my room into a hoarder's fantasy is sewing stuff. Patterns, patterns, and more patterns; clothes waiting to be re-styled; sewing projects in progress; and new cuts of fabric. Oh, and shoes. Because I'm a woman and I can do that. But anyway!

The point is that I've somehow cleared a little space on my floor, and I want more. So I need to sew -- sew through each pattern to see how it fits, sew through the piles of fabric so that they are clothes and not piles. I can already foresee the strain this is going to put on my meager closet, but hey! I'm all about making sacrifices. If that means having more to wear than I ever have in my life, well -- what's a woman to do?

Pinky Pye

I’ve named this project after a book the childrens’ librarian at my local branch directed me to. The book, Pinky Pye, is by Eleanor Estes, author of Ginger Pye.

Ginger Pye is one of the most bizarre but unforgettable books of my childhood. I remember reading it and being boggled by the thoughts that went through the characters’ heads, as well as the complicity of the adults in the story. It may have been that I read that story at an older age than its intended audience, and so had a harder time suspending my disbelief; at any rate, I eventually bought the book and re-read it a few times.

I’m looking forward to cracking open Pinky Pye, and wearing the rather interesting-looking pink scarf I’ve named after it!

They’re All Going to Laugh At You

The last time I wore shorts, I was eleven years old.

I remember that last day, and the shorts I was wearing – in fact, the whole outfit I was wearing – like it was just yesterday.

My grade was on a whale watching cruise, and the weather was gorgeous. I’d picked out one of my favorite ensembles to celebrate both the fine weather and the special day. It was a white button-up shirt and lime green shorts held up with matching suspenders. The fabric for both was a mid-weight cotton that was always wrinkled, because I didn’t know you could iron play clothes. I thought I looked pretty fabulous.

In addition to always being wrinkled, the shirt-and-shorts combo was at least a year old, maybe even eighteen months old. Given the growth surge I was experiencing at the time, wearing something so old was definitely risky as far as a proper fit was concerned. In hindsight, I probably looked ridiculous, with my long, skinny legs cascading down from the too-short lime green-and-white get up, but I definitely didn’t have the gift of hindsight then.

I was fine until I had the misfortune of catching some of my classmates laughing at me: doubled over, can’t breathe, hysterical laughing. And these were boy classmates, at a time when I was beginning to vaguely understand the importance of male/female roles and relationships. I wasn’t sure what about me was so hilarious, and desperately hoped they weren’t actually laughing at me. Paralyzed by humiliation and confusion, I was uncharacteristically silent, unable to ask what was so funny. It was the last time I wore shorts.

In fact, for many years after that, I didn’t even expose my legs. I’d wear skirts here and there for special occasions, but always with tights. In my early-mid twenties, fueled solely by liquid courage, I recall wearing bare legs under a skirt precisely two times. And then the music stopped again.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Now I am older, wiser, and less inclined to shoulder the yoke of social acceptability. I am also drowning in fabric, especially old pieces which I bought for all the wrong reasons. One such piece, a purple and white checkered seersucker, has been on my radar for at least a year, but every project I wanted to use it for fell through. Today, I finally found its calling: shorts! Unabashedly preppy bermuda shorts, to go with my purple-on-white Nikes (another ill advised purchase, but these things happen). Perhaps I’ll pull out my sleeveless white polo shirt, to complete the prep school look I’ve always secretly admired. Stay tuned for the making of shorts, the baring of legs, and the adoption of a new look.