"The hell if this seam is ever going to come undone," I said, as I stitched over it three times. I sat back and admired my handiwork. It's a neat dress: off white, light flower print. Fake silk lining. I've worked really hard on it, gone all the extra steps. I wanted the sleeves to be tough as nails, I wanted that seam indistructible. So I stitched it three times, until the machine wasn't catching fabric anymore, just the thread.
I tried on the dress with only one sleeve done. And then I realized that I had sewed the sleeve on backwards.
Ripping out sleeves can have wonderful moments. For a long period, you're painstakingly tearing out stitches, one by one. Then you form a hole in the seam, and can slide the knife, or scissors (I am a bloody thumb waiting to happen) in and rip out a few more stitches. Then the beautiful moment comes - after tugging and cursing at the thread and the fabric, and contemplating throwing the whole dress in the scrapheap - the thread slides right on out.
The two pieces of fabric come apart, worn and complaining, with little bits of thread hanging out everywhere, but apart. It's making things right after being stupid. I never should have been so sure in the first place, or so forward in my stitching.
before / after
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