Sewing after fifty? Good luck with that

A few months ago, a button came off one of my favourite hand-me-down shirts. It was a Ralph Lauren which I received from my friend’s discarded garments, and since I rarely purchased designer clothes, I thought it would be a great addition to my obsolete wardrobe.

At first, I thought I could wear it, and nobody would notice. But no, the missing button was right by my boob. Since I’m not into flashing, I decided I shouldn’t wear it for obvious reasons.

I thought about throwing it out, but I couldn’t bear to part with a free, designer blouse. So, I thought I would revive the shirt by sewing on a button. How hard could that be?

Since we were poorer than dirt growing up, my mother had taught me how to sew. Although I got fired from a job making wallets at a sewing factory in college, I prayed that I could at least manage to reattach a button.

I remember it wasn’t very difficult, and it didn’t require an instruction manual. Anything’s easier than furniture from IKEA. Just grab a needle, and some thread, aim, and you’re on you’re halfway there.

Unfortunately, if you’re past a certain age, threading a needle is next to impossible. Even with my high- powered readers on, I could barely decipher which end of the needle I was supposed to use.

After 30 tries, I was finally successful and on my way to repairing my groovy blouse. I found a button that seemed like it would do the trick, and I began to sew it on.

I placed the button in the appropriate spot and began to stitch through the blouse and into those stupid button holes. I managed to attach the button until I looked and realised it was about a half-inch off from the other ones.

So, I cut off the threads and began again, making sure the button was properly aligned with the other ones. I’m not OCD so it looked good enough to me. I made a reasonable amount of progress until I got ready to trim the thread. Suddenly, my nifty scissors sliced a gash into the blouse. There it was: a neat little slice, just like a surgeon’s incision.

I looked at it from every angle. Surely nobody would notice a small ½ inch cut into some fine linen. But no, it was evidence of my stupidity and inability to follow directions.

But I was not ready to give up. I thought if I applied a little bit of scotch tape to the inside of the fabric, I could rescue the garment. Gingerly, I applied a tiny piece of scotch tape to the inside of the shirt, and voila, my slicing error was barely noticeable.

I got a few more years out of that blouse, but the last time I tried to put it on, it had gotten too tight because I had gained some weight. It now fit more like a vest. I hope somebody from Goodwill gave it a second chance, scotch, tape, and all.