I hate sewing. Okay, hate is a strong word. My inablility to sew is more like a genetic flaw that I resent. My grandmother was a fine seamstress. My mother made beautiful quilts and was a prolific embroiderer. Me? Nada. The seamstress genetic pool dried up when I arrived on earth. I prick my fingers, tangle the thread into hopeless knots, and create puckered seams. I can’t put in a zipper to save my soul, and don’t even talk to me about button holes.
The other day my husband casually snuck in the following information—
Him: “Honey! It’s a beautiful morning. The birds are singing, the sun is shining…
Me waking up: “Smfffffp.” (My face was in the pillow.)
Him: “Yep. We should get up and enjoy the day because it is beautiful. Really beautiful. Something to be thankful for. You, er, we should be happy today. ”
Me: “Okaaaaaay. Are you alright?’
Him: “Yes. Booker came out to get the paper with me and by the way heateyourcushiononfromtherockingchaironthedeck.”
Me: “What’d you say? Heat is foaming on the rock…wha???”
Him: “Um, Booker ate your cushion that used to be on the rocking chair on the deck. But don’t get mad! I will fix it.”
A sane rational person would’ve taken one look at the de-stuffed cushion and tossed it away. The poor thing had been gutted and left in a rumpled, crumbled heap. If cushions could shed their skin like a snake– well that would be weird, so never mind. Anyway, my husband wanted to make amends by re-sewing the damage.
Tonight he sat at the sewing machine for hours trying to make it work. I kept my distance. The irritating thing? Not once did he need a band-aid, swear, or sew his fingers into the cushion. I’m such a loser.
The cushion is now in one piece and has lots of, um, character. I didn’t have to sew, my husband feels better about Booker’s four-paws, er, fopaux, and it was the best part of my day.