As a teenager, I was a real clothes horse without a regular allowance. The sister closest in age to me had the hour glass figure, while I had the figure time forgot, so hand-me-downs were a bit roomy. My mother taught me the basics of sewing, augmented by home economics classes and learning the hard way. My projects were always a bit ambitious with occasionally attractive results. I had a good eye for bargains at thrift stores and garage sales, and the patience to alter things to fit. It was the middle of the whole preppy craze, coming on the heels of Annie Hall, so old, threadbare, and rumpled were considered the new old classics. As I got older, I became completely shameless, telling friends their outfits would look so much better on me. The quality of the hand-me-downs improved considerably, in spite of my cheek.
One of my first jobs was at a fabric store during the purple paisley/metallic lace/ginormous shoulder pad craze of the 1980s. The store was the size of a department store. I used to watch people walk in the store for the first time with expressions that ranged from "oh wow" to "oh ralph," it was that overwhelming. I worked in the notions department, which meant helping customers figure out what they were looking at, did they need it, or if something else they already had might work. Objects of pity were the folks who'd stand in front of the sew-in bra display and ask, "Are these the only shoulder pads you have?" At one point, we were selling self-adhesive bras. Customers would walk up to the display, then ask the staff, "do these work" without looking us in the eye, as if we were all demonstrating the product for them at that very moment.
I gave away the clothes I made from back then, but still have a fine collection of fabric I keep adding to, and changing my mind about. Sewing really is the worst hobby for someone as indecisive as me. I never have to make a decision. Sometimes I just take the fabric out, look at it, think about it, fold it, and put it away again. Buttons and trim are just as bad, taunting me with the possibilities, yet suffering the same fate as the fabric. It's like playing Barbies without the dolls.
I have a regular desk job now, but work one day a week at a friend's fabric store. I spend most of the time showing people who are new to sewing how to get started. My friend and I don't get to sew as often as we'd like to and realized that every time we talk about it or plan to, the opportunity to do so becomes ever more elusive, like we'd cursed it. Yesterday we decided to only refer to it in passing as the "Scottish play" in reference to the superstition of mentioning Macbeth in a theater.
This is the crazy season, where everyday feels like a full moon. I get through the madness by pretending each customer is a performance artist and I am part of the floor show. The owner looks on me as the costume engineer, helping customers figure out how to make costumes on the cheap using glue, staples, and tape to hold the pieces together. Sometimes, I manage to convince them to try actually sewing it together.
Last year every college girl and three or four of her closest girlfriends had the original idea to go as "Pocahontas," "an Indian princess," or a "Native American." The guys all wanted to go as Max from "Where the Wild Things Are." Once, I had to convince someone who had the great idea of making his own straight jacket that maybe it wasn't such a great idea after all. I merely asked him, "How are you going to hold your beer, and how are you going to hold your beer?" He went as an accountant instead. The best homemade costume I saw last year was someone as a hamster on a wheel. I hope more folks take the DIY approach. Someone answer my prayers and go as Mildred Pierce. I know where you can find the perfect shoulder pads for it.
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