Waste

by V Rose Dahrke

I’ve been working on making a dress for the past few days. Why? Well, for the same reason that I keep making those flat gooey lemon piles that I generously call pies: because I’m absolutely wretched at it. If I’m bad at something, I feel the need to practice it.

Patrick does not share my enthusiasm for self-teaching. It’s not that he doesn’t think I should learn new things; it’s simply that he thinks I shouldn’t leave them all over the living room, or work on them when I have “better” things to do. I made a point of tidying up my mess this evening, because I will admit that I made a hell of a mess the last time. This is my second attempt at making a dress. The first, a creation vaguely resembling a brown taffeta bag, has never been worn.

Now, the reason that I bring all of this up is that after spending two hours working on the bodice of this new dress and doing the first actual sewing on it after several evenings of cutting patterns, fabric, and lining, I managed to get a fold caught under the seam I was trimming. The rotary cutter decided not to forgive this particular mistake, and I was left with a thumb sized, irreparable hole in the front of the bodice.

Two hours in the trash.

This is why I should be writing. Well, either that or folding the three baskets of laundry sitting around, but I’m going to pretend I don’t see those.

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