05/06/2023

Against the Grain

We’re wandering around our local Publix, hunting down frozen crumpets and some chocolate Hobnobs ahead of the coronation.

We’ve made plans to watch history unfold on Saturday morning and I’m not doing it without tea and biscuits. We expertly dodge geriatrics who swing their trolleys around with no self-awareness and execute a masterful exit strategy to pick up the last few items based on their proximity to the registers. When we finally make it to the self-checkout with every item on the list we’re greeted by a friendly employee.

“Oh, I just love your outfit!” She remarks at me “Where’d you get it?”

I’m wearing a pair of enormous linen overalls with a white singlet underneath. I smile as I set down the basket and begin to unload it.

“Online,” I say, politely waving her off. I feel a bit self-conscious that I have been acknowledged in this particular outfit. It’s a comfortable choice that makes me look a bit bohemian.

“Oh everyone buys clothes online these days,” she chortles, “where online?”

I punch in the familiar PLU code 4011 on the screen, then I pass Justice the bananas to bag up.

“The company is called Nettle Studios, they’re based in California,” I reply, accepting that I’m not getting out of this friendly conversation so easily. I want to blurt out a bunch of disclaimers; I bought them as a gift to myself! I don’t usually spend this kind of money on clothes! Please don’t judge me! But I bite my tongue.

“Metal Studios,” she says back confidently.

“No, Nettle,” I repeat, “Like stinging nettle.” I scan my phone to pay as Justice scoops up the bags and smiles at the woman.

“Nettle,” she grins, “got it. Thanks! Y’all have a blessed day,” she waves us off as we leave the supermarket.

I feel my guts twist up a little at our sweet interaction. As if he’s reading my mind, Justice says “She’s in for a bit of sticker shock, huh?”

After getting my first full-time copywriting job a couple of years ago, I decided that I wanted an ethically sourced piece of clothing to treasure. “It’s an investment piece,” I told Justice as I sat in front of my laptop anxiously waiting for the latest batch of overalls to drop.

We’d just come off a financially tight year and I felt frivolous buying such a quaint gift for myself. It didn’t occur to me until I spoke to the woman at the supermarket that I still felt some shame around it.

In the weeks that followed I let the interaction go. By the end of May, I felt the annual urge to pull out the sewing machine loom. My sewing machine sits on a shelf below my desk, gradually collecting dust and looking sad.

I come from skilful crafting women on both sides of the family. Mum’s impressive record of knocking up quilts, knitwear, embroideries, and costumes could fill an exhibition on its own. My paternal grandmother ran a local knitting shop and could put something together in her armchair without looking away from Hawthorn’s latest game on the telly. My centenarian great-grandmother made enough blankets and craft projects throughout her life for every person in our family three times over.

Sadly, I have not inherited these gifts. In fact, I have an incredible ability to make sewing projects considerably more complex than necessary without even trying. In high school, my very kind and forgiving Textiles teacher, Mrs Pike, would look at my assignments with generous sympathy. "Chelsea seems very motivated but struggles with finishing off projects," would always end up on my end-of-semester report. Put simply, I do not have the patience for it.

With this in mind, I decided on some wrap pants. The material was cheap and the difficulty level may as well have been categorized as “Dead easy.” However, lo and behold, two days in I found myself at my wit's end unpicking a wobbly hem.

“Remind me to never put myself through this shit again,” I grumbled to Justice.

“It just takes practice,” he smirked.

My husband, the Zen master, quietly went on with his studying while I silently cursed his rational answer and daydreamed about piffing the damn sewing machine out the window into the rain.

With a sharp ache in my neck, a last-minute change in thread colour, and cotton strewn across the floor in every room of the house, I triumphantly modelled the pants a few days later.

“You look like a samurai,” Justice chucked. Not the answer I wanted to hear after all my efforts.

The enormous pants remain in my small rotation of clothes, but they have now been affectionately named my “writing pants.” Good for working from home, but not so good for a run to the supermarket. I no longer want to throw the sewing machine out into the rain (for now). But, my quiet vow to never do this to myself again has remained stronger than ever.

No part of me, whatsoever, enjoys the process of sewing. I curse having to cut fabric. I loathe every step of setting up the machine. I’d rather eat my own hair than have to pin a hem. It has taken me 29 years, but I have finally accepted that I much prefer buying clothes that are made with love than making them myself. I will not be passing down the crafting gene, and I’m okay with that.

“I hate sewing!” I tell Justice, post-project. He shakes his head and laughs at my dramatic delivery, but goddamn it feels good to admit it. The money I splashed on those overalls feels like a good investment in retrospect. As if I own a real treasure, one that I will happily wear in public

This month, I encourage you to investigate the things you feel like you “should” be good at. Do they really matter? Why?

Food For Thought

What’s something you secretly hate doing?
Email me your answer.

“Man is the only creature who refuses to be what he is.”
―Albert Camus