Recently, I found myself doing something wholly offensive. Well, not as offensive as the things you are undoubtedly thinking--this is a family blog, folks. No, I found myself perusing Consumer Reports. While this, alone, would be offensive to me 5 years ago (as you who know me are well aware), it gets worse. I was looking at the reviews for...wait for it...sewing machines.
Yes, I--the woman who for the past decade refused to purchase any article of clothing unless it had a pretty, well-known label sewn in the back--was looking to purchase a sewing machine. This fact would have caused my late grandmother to rise in a state of bliss. From the time I was little, she was constantly trying to get me to do two "girl" things: cook and sew. And while I eventually gave into the cooking (hey, some guys think it's hot, so I went with it), I have steadfastly refused to even consider the latter. It's gross. Not the act, of course--sewing is not only highly practical, it is admittedly a kind of cool art form. But it's the sheer girliness of the act. Sewing connotes a kind of basic housekeeping skill that is the type that I have shunned for the entirety of my adult existence. It is a terminal sin to be thought of as a woman in a law firm. You can look like a woman (in fact, such is preferred), you may occasionally act like a woman (though free cards on this one are limited), but under no circumstances are you to actually be a woman. It's the kiss of death. And therefore it is a rule by which I have lived not only my work life, but my home life as well.
So why, may you ask, am I now straying from this rule? Because I want to make my kid a blankie. That's it. Nothing life-changing or sinister or earth shattering. I simply want to make a comfy lovie for my kid and I can't do that without a sewing machine. WHO AM I??? It's crazy--such an impulse would never have crossed my brain prior to having a child. So what is the difference? Is it hormones? Let's just leave that one at, I don't think so. Is it necessity? Nope, the kid has a million blankets. Or is it (gasp) biology? Have such urges always been underneath the surface, just waiting for the chance to escape? Who knows. All I know is that the thought of it made me vomit slightly in my mouth, before I cyber-ran, screaming, to view the Gucci spring collection. Don't get me wrong--I will ultimately purchase the damn machine. And I will make the stupid blanket. But I won't like it. Some things, no matter how ingrained, must be fought.
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