Sewing and Slow Living

I have trouble finding pants that fit me.

This sounds like the bane of every woman in America, but for me, it's because of the inseam.

I'm tall with petite measurements so finding pants long enough is a neverending chore. The waist will fit, but the length looks like I'm treading flood waters.

And choosing the "tall" option doesn't work either. I'm not tall enough for that. 

I'm right in the middle; I don't fit in. Sort of how I feel about all areas of my life, but that's for another post...

I came across a pair of pants that fit great last week. Linen pants: perfect for summer. The waist and hips fit great, but the inseam was a good inch too short. Like normal.

This time, instead of suffering in silence, I decided to take matters into my own hands.

At home with the trousers, I took out my sewing machine with the intent to fix my problem. I know. A sewing machine? Yes, me, who isn't a sewer was going to fix my hems.

I bought this basic beauty about 20 years ago and use it maybe once every five years. But by golly, I wasn't going to let my inexperience hinder me. I was tired of pants not fitting.

After rereading the instruction manual, it all came back to me: how to thread the needle, refill the bobbin, all the things a seamstress would know in Sewing 101. I took out the hem and re-hemmed them with a now more perfect inseam.

It only took about ten minutes (most of that was spent figuring out the sewing machine again) but let me tell you... I've never felt more proud of myself.

Sewing is slow living at its finest. Sewing, reusing clothing that I could've given away because it didn't fit, reworking fabric, taking my time ... it all encompasses the slow-living concept. 

The simple hemming of my pants made me feel like I could conquer the world.

I'm not a real seamstress. I can mend holes in wool sweaters and sew on new buttons. I can occasionally hem my trousers (as I just found out). But a sewer, I am not. 

My mother and mother-in-law know how to sew. They're the gifted ones who can make clothing out of a single piece of lifeless fabric into something that fits and looks incredible.

I also have many friends in the vintage clothing world - friends much younger than me -who know how to sew and sew well. So, the talent may have waned over the years, but it's still very much alive.

Is sewing in my future? Probably not. Though I would love for it to be.

But do I feel just a little bit more tied to my ancestors of yore, when buying cheap clothing on Amazon was not only "not a thing" but an unfathomable concept?

Yes. I feel 1000% percent better about myself. I'm living the slow living way, which goes along with me selling vintage clothing, and living a simple, minimalistic lifestyle.

I'm not a future designer, but I now feel capable of being able to hem pants to fit me better.

There's no perceptible value in that feeling. It's the priceless result of me learning how to work with my brain and hands and not let the monster of short inseams scare me forever.

Self-sufficiency does wonders for the soul. 

And apparently, hemming pants was all I needed to feel like I could take on the world. 

Highly recommend.

Flying Away │ How I'm Dealing with my Lastborn Graduating High School

My lastborn son is about to graduate high school in a couple of weeks.

So, I'm not crying at all these days. Not a bit... only when I breathe.

The truth is, I'm not thinking about how sad I am. It's a sadness in a good way, if that's actually a thing. And it has kept me from remaining in a perpetual puddle of tears.

I'm happy about who he's become over the last almost 18 years I've raised him. But also sad that my role as mom and child-raiser is shifting into something I know very little about (My older son has helped me transition into that role already, so I'm not totally inept... but close.) 

I'm essentially being fired from a job to learn my "new" mom role.

While I'm ready to let him fly, I feel like I still have one hand on his shirt tails holding him back from floating away. I don't want to let him go.

I'm proud of my son, Caleb. He has turned into an amazing young man, is passionate about many things, and can't wait to begin college and start his career (This could be a career in EMS, or piloting, or Marine reserves, or ... he's very diverse. EMS seems to be the current love though.)

His heart is pure, he's following the path God has for him, he is honest and good, and he wants to do the right thing in all areas of his life. He also loves cars, video games, talking to girls, and waxing poetic about politics, his peers, and every subject under the sun. As a not-even-18-year-old, he's an old soul.

We call him "Old Man Caleb" in our household for this very reason.

I wrote about my flip-flopping happy/sad disposition in an article for Her View from Home. It goes into a little more depth about how crazy the end of the year for a graduating senior is - especially for the parents.

I am glad that my boy is graduating and succeeding in all of it. Because it is a lot. It's overwhelming; it's busy, insane, chaotic and crazy. And he's doing it all!  But this is it.

And it's the last time this situation happens for me, too. My baby is graduating high school.

And while letting go of him isn't easy, I know it's time. I'm thankful God let me be his mother. 

Happy or sad, I love this kid to pieces.

-Heather

Losing My Mind and Laughing About It

A couple months ago, when we were having our fence replaced (the one that blew over in the last storm), it came time to pay the invoice.

I answered the door, while I was in the middle of writing - my head in a complete jumble over words and sentences - and proceeded to sign the waiver confirming the fence people did a good job, finished the job, etc. 

I signed my name and proceeded to fill in the date. Only, I couldn't remember the date. We were in March, and it was early March... but what was the year?

I mentally jogged back to the last check I'd written, or the last calendar glance I'd made, but nothing came to mind. I looked past the guy holding the clipboard waiting for me, hoping my change of scenery would bring back the date. But it didn't.

For all I knew, it was 1985 with America deep into the Reagan administration.

Why can't I remember what year this is?

Now, remember, all of these thoughts are happening lightning fast and only a couple of seconds have passed. The guy with the clipboard hasn't a clue that my mind is in the middle of a meltdown. At least, not yet.

This is it, I thought.

This is the day when my mind officially has left the premises. Who would take care of the kids?

Would I even be able to remember my name by the end of the day?

"So, uh...," I said out loud, "What day is this?" Trying to play dumb as if I only didn't know the day. And then I mentally girded myself: I got ready to say it: I was about to ask him what year it was. "And we're in what year?" I asked with a slight chuckle.

He laughed and kindly told me 2024, and it all came tumbling back. Yes, yes... we are in the year 2024! 

I knew what he was thinking; I could read it on his face, "What is wrong with this lady?"

Pal, I'm wondering the same thing.

I laughed again, he laughed again, and he handed me the receipt. I thanked him, shut the door, and locked it, the smile now gone. What in the world just happened?

For the rest of the day, I wondered if indeed this was the beginning of Alzheimer's. Did it start with dates, I wondered? Maybe it was the second cup of coffee that had hijacked my brain? Or maybe it was that I hadn't had enough coffee?

Maybe it was that I lived in a vintage world. Because I really do. I sell vintage clothing and I'm constantly listing items in my Etsy shop. A vintage '60s dress here, an '80s jean jacket there. I love vintage everything. Maybe that was it? Maybe I was losing my grasp on time because I was living in the past?

I even told my oldest son what happened."Really?" he said, "And you asked him what year it was?" Oh, Lord... I did. I really had asked the guy what year it was.

I realize we all forget things from time to time, but not remembering the year was like not remembering that my eyes were blue or that I had two boys. It was a part of me that I'd always remembered and for once, it was obliterated from my mind.

Amnesia at its finest, I suppose.

I read somewhere that if you take a traumatic or embarrassing experience and turn that view of a horrific scene into one that is humorous, it changes the very essence of the experience; it releases the trauma and turns it into a positive experience. 

Because it was traumatic. Forgetting the year is like memorizing a speech that disappears the moment you're on stage. 

So then, what's funny about it? How can I keep this event from tormenting my mind and body?

It's funny because it shows I'm human; it shows no one's perfect; it shows we all have weak moments, and it really is humorous that my brain wouldn't work like I wanted it to.

I may be losing my mind, or maybe, it's that I didn't have enough coffee (I'm going to go with that one), but if I'm going to lose my mind, I'm going to do it laughing. After all, laughing is good for us. And I'm hoping the laughter will also help with the memory problems.

Here's to happy youthful minds and here's to 2024!

Reading in Bed │ A Librocubicularist

After coming across this image and description of what I do on the regular, I think I've finally (after saying it a dozen times) gotten the hang of the word.

Librocubicularist. A person who reads in bed.

I've never actually heard this descriptive word before, though I'm familiar with its action like I know the back of my hand. Have you used this word before?

And get this: the word had seven syllables. The same as if you said, "a person who reads in bed."

And if both have seven syllables, neither one is shorter to say. So, it’s your choice.

Both are what many do and love to do.

It's up to you to say what you want to say. Maybe it's just a fancy word - which it is. But, it's also a literal Latin translation for "reading in bed" in a more succinct form.

I like the sound of librocubicularist. It's slow living in its ultimate form.

Happy reading.

-Heather