I’m not too proud to admit that I accept hand-me-downs (what my mom tells me I called “me-toos” as a three-year-old). Actually, I was too proud to make that admission, but that was before I needed something to write about. It was also before September 27, the day I walked into my closet and learned I was afflicted with that age-old women’s ailment: Nothing To Wear. Except that I did have one thing to wear. That great pair of barely worn jeans a friend had passed on to me. These jeans fit perfectly – or at least as perfectly as anything has fit since January 6, 2006. That was the day my body decided I could no longer out-eat every man at the table and not suffer the consequences. There was also the little detail that my friend is three inches taller than me. But hey, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do, and I can sew.
At least I could sew. I sewed in my freshman Home Economics class. I sewed a white terry cloth jogging suit with elastic at the waistband (of both the top and pants) and elastic at the ankles. OK. It was hideous, but my family has a long history of seamstresses. Somewhere in my nephews’ closet hangs a little wool navy pea coat that my mother, a self-professed country girl tomboy, sewed for my brother. It’s fully lined and everything. It would be at home on a rack in the Boys Department of Nordstroms. And don’t get me started on my grandmother, proprietor of the TLC Doll Hospital. That woman could hand-stitch tiny doll clothes that looked better than anything sewn with a machine.
Sewing is in my genes, so I could surely handle hemming a pair of jeans. With visions of my mother and grandmother in my mind, I made my way to the garage. What I needed was…there it was! Duct tape! A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.