“You mean like sewing?”

“Yes, I mean like sewing with a needle and thread,” I answered my daughter’s question after reporting over the phone what I was up to.

“Hem Bedroom Curtains.” One of the few entries left on my “To-Do” list for the remodel that . . .  Will. Not. End. The length of my list had afforded bountiful opportunity to work around this task. Until this morning. Today was the day to hem the damned curtains.

I reached up to the top shelf of my closet to retrieve my 1980’s sewing basket (a gift from my mother).  Needles? Check. Straight pins? There were only a few but I figured I could use the extra needles to supplement. Dark gray thread? Black would do. White thread for the sheers? Beige. Close enough. Standing on a plastic step stool, I learned the curtain rods were somehow affixed so I couldn’t lift them up an out of the holder thingy. Couldn’t dislodge the screw. Bummer.

I signed up for a workout class giving myself an hour to putz.

And then I saw the stool and the sewing basket by the window and thought, “I could just sit right down on that stool and hem those curtains and never have to take them down. Perfect. I popped the “Sewing Gauge Ruler,” fully equipped with a red slide gadget, from its yellowed packaging, knowing this would help me keep the hem uniform in width. Panel #1 resting on my knees, I marked the turndown with the few pins I had. I took the needle and thread into the bathroom where the light was better and threaded the needle, remembering how to knot the end. Impressed, I sat on my perch and turned the curtain inside out and began to loop the thread through the fabric being careful to make each stich small.

Home Economics, Center Grove Schools. I would take every class offered–even in high school. It would be my minor. It was not that I was good at sewing. In fact, I flunked the zipper installation lesson multiple times. It was that we created things. Rather than being relegated to a seat for an hour, we sat at large tables, moved about the room at will, and were allowed to chit chat while we worked. We made chocolate chip cookies. Designed our future homes, made recipe boxes, and refinished a piece of furniture. We even talked about sex. Who wouldn’t want to minor in Home Ec.?

The hem stitch came back to me immediately. As did the look on Mrs. Morrison’s face upon examining the brand new zipper I had just sewn into my skirt–for the third time. She jerked it out of my hand and said, “I’ll do it myself!” If memory serves me correctly, it was then that she sent my friend and me to the kitchen classroom to wash dishes. Our cooking unit was to begin the next week and all the dishes had to be hand washed before we could begin. Don’t you think a grown-woman teacher would know better than to send two middle school girls into another room where they could potentially squirt each other with the spray attachments at neighboring sinks?

Let’s just say we got into BIG trouble. And had to clean up a BIG mess.

I stepped back to admire my work after finishing the first panel. I looked around the room and at the clock, realizing I really only needed to hem one more panel as the bottoms of the rest were hidden either by my nightstand or Rick’s dresser. And if I hemmed only the one more, I could mark this task from my list and still make it to Orange Theory on time. Hmmmmn, I thought. Mrs. Morrison will never know.

And I really did enjoy my workout.