earlier this year, while i was still very much engulfed in much pain and stress and emotion, my boy decided that it was time for me to stop blabbering and fetal-positioning and watching jurassic park twice a day every day and three times on weekends, and do something moderately more productive instead.
so he did what a good, caring human being ideally does, apart from allowing others to watch jurassic park AS MANY TIMES AS THEY FUCKING WANT, and signed me up for a sewing class.
don’t get me wrong now, buddy (see i’m canadian now). i know how to sew. i just never got into it enough to learn to make something i could, or more accurately, would, actually wear. also, “learning to make something” just inherently doesn’t fit that well with me.
but in this class hosted by spool of thread we were going to be making the omnipresent wiksten tank, which seemed like the loveliest, perfectest, summeriest thing to make. (also easiest. apart from tote bags. fuck tote bags. i buy mine from save-on-foods.)
it was indeed marvellously fast and easy to make (EXCEPT TURNING THE HEM I HATE YOU HEM) and fits in a rather flattering way despite the non-drapey woven fabric. you also can’t see the puckers and the booboos, so as far as you’re concerned, they’re not there, even though they are.
the fact that i managed to make something so utterly wearable made me so giddy that i even attempted to climb a tree.
then i found breadcrumbs in my boobs and got distracted.
but something about this mystical, occultistic form of crafting appeals to me. like seriously, you guys. if anyone needs me, i’ll be back at spool of thread lick-claiming EVERYTHING. that’s still a thing, right?