Part of the reason I make so many blasted table runners is that our little rented house has a gazillion (actually, six in all) non-functioning radiators. Every room has at least one, and our nice landlord bought these pretty covers at some point. When we first moved in I thought they were really quite charming, but I soon remembered that if you give me a flat surface I will let it collect dust and other clutter/detritus. And the radiators take up precious space in this teensy little house.
So the idea for the table runner was born. This one is particularly pretty, I think. It really brightened up this particular radiator-cover corner. But then I ran out of time to make a Mother's Day gift so it got given away. (I'll be damned if that isn't one of the most yokel-tastic sentences I've ever strung together).Anyway, I started to make another one but added another fabric or two and it just doesn't look as...what? Blue? Rich? Deep? Anyway, it's shorter too and I was going to put a binding on this one--for practice, you know. I've even sewn the binding together! But looking at this one kind of reminds me of what a pale imitation the other one will be, and I feel that familiar about-to-give-up feeling I get, with the dragging feet and the knitted brow, like someone's forcing me to tour a museum dedicated to computer code.
Have I said this? Since no one's reading I guess I can say it all I want--cooking is easy for me. Even when I'm making something I've never made before, the process is familiar enough that I feel adept--deft, even--whenever I'm in the kitchen. Husband does not. Even when he's just helping me, he fumbles more than anything (sorry, baby--he might actually read this one day). But that isn't because he's a gallump. It's because he's unfamiliar with the process. When I say "take that off the stove" he doesn't know where to put it down. When I say "pour some oil in that pan" he doesn't know how much oil. When I say "grab me the salt" he doesn't know if I mean table or kosher. He actually rather loathes cooking. And when there is a deadline, when dinner is just about to come together and timing is a major factor (the pasta has to be strained NOW), I'm ashamed to say I get impatient with him and sometimes I am snappy. Like a mean turtle.
Anyway, when faced with a new (or old) sewing project, I feel like Husband in the kitchen. I don't know how much or where or which--I fumble. And it's really frustrating. The mean turtle turns on itself.
So I stay away from the sewing machine, even though I know that the only way to stop being a fumbler is to get up there and practice.
I should think of the way I used to dice onions, or anything else that needed to be cut up for a recipe: I would lift the knife off the cutting board and hack into the food willy nilly, taking twice as long to reach a dice as was necessary, and ending up with unevenly-sized chunks. With practice, however, I've vastly improved my dicing skills. Now it feels like it comes naturally, even though I know nature has nothing to do with it. I am a clumsy girl, with next to no natural physical grace or skill. My body must learn by rote, by repeatedly performing the same tasks until they become automatic. It goes without saying, but I'll say it anyway: I must learn to sew by rote, until all these little skills become automatic.
So I've really broken that down, haven't I? Been sitting here for a good thirty minutes working on that analysis. Guess what I could have been doing? Right. Procrastination is a topic for another day.
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