Selfish Sewing

Last Tuesday, my husband and I touched down at Toronto’s Pearson Airport after a vacation to the West Coast to see family and friends (and to play tourist in my former hometown). In the weeks leading up to our departure, we were eerily relaxed. This lack of panic was, ironically, what troubled me most. While I’ve made great strides in the direction of overall wellness, being calm—excited, even—about an event that’s meant to bring joy and connection is still somewhat disconcerting for me given that I’m used to my anxiety being a second skin. I was happy, though, to shed that spectre like a moulting gecko slowly outgrowing its decades-old mental illness. Such progress. Such growth. Such an awkwardly forced analogy.

From a practical perspective, there wasn’t much to be concerned about. It was our third time travelling to British Columbia with me in a wheelchair, so there was little anticipatory stress in that regard; we know the routine and are comfortable with it, and I’m much more adaptable than I was even six months ago. Airports and flights are an absolute breeze now that I have a travel powerchair on which to zoom from Tim Horton’s to gift store to gate and the capacity to walk down the aisle to the airplane bathroom to empty my bladder. No more avoiding liquids for hours before boarding! I was relatively unfazed by most other aspects of the trip, too. The logistics were sorted, and general plans had been made. I was bracing myself for ten-ish days of reduced mobility but took comfort in my husband’s promise to ferry me around as needed as to make my separation from my everyday powerchair less painful. There was no question, in other words, that we could and would handle it all like the pros we’re proving ourselves to be.

The only thing causing me true, almost-losing-sleep-level anxiety as the pre-trip months turned into pre-trip weeks—funny how that happens—was the long list of gifts I’d intended to sew for the special Victorians in my life coupled with the equally long list of summer garments I’d planned to sew for myself. Each was unrealistic in its own right, let alone in sum, and that was after I’d whittled them down to the point that every item seemed equally indispensable.

With no shortage of actual commitments I couldn’t shirk and thus limited sewing time, I devoted all spare moments to frantic crafting. Reading for pleasure, hanging out with my husband after dinner, and any gesture toward drafting a blog post flew out the window. I quickly forgot why I claim to like sewing but doggedly kept going because I’m a glutton for self-imposed punishment. When the pre-trip weeks became a pre-trip week, singular, I started agonizing over what to prioritize. Option one was to continue churning out a growing pile of stuff to distribute—items I’d normally make with attention, love, and a whole heart but was increasingly riddling with a) sloppy stitching caused by distraction, and b) ramping resentment as I thought about the matching set I’d envisioned myself wearing on a beach in the Pacific Northwest. This jewel-toned plaid ensemble, for which I had the fabric and had selected the patterns, was rapidly fading from view, taking with it my sewing mojo and any remaining will to be a good sport. Option two was to nix the rest of the gifts and go all in on the garments. Option three was more nebulous: letting inspiration guide me.

Whereas a more generous, selfless person may have selected the first of these, I, unwilling or unable to acknowledge that I’m not that person, compromised with the third. This, as it turns out, was option two in disguise. Indeed, in the days that followed, I sewed a jumpsuit and, yes, that matching set. And nothing for anyone else save a scrunchie to match something I’d already finished.

In my defense, it wasn’t as if I appeared empty-handed. Quite the opposite: a quarter of my suitcase was dedicated to gifts, handmade and otherwise, that I’d stockpiled over the course of months and with great care and affection. Genuine care and affection, not that of the rushed, bitter variety. Did I feel some twinges of guilt as I packed a sizeable stack of things I’d sewn for myself? Yes. I reminded myself, however, that I help keep Canada Post afloat by mailing presents across the country on a semi-regular basis. “Not now” didn’t mean “never.”

I’ll admit that more powerful than those self-judgemental thoughts was a surprising sense of pride. I was happy that I had a fresh selection of summer-appropriate garments to don if the weather held out—it did, with the inevitable West Coast sweater day here and there, which is par for course—and that I could maintain my six-month-or-more streak of incorporating at least one me-made garment into my outfit every day without doing laundry or drowning in sweat on vacation. I’d let go of the stress and let myself enjoy the process, and I’ll be more likely to enjoy rather than pretend that I’m enjoying sewing the items still lingering on my for-others list when I get to them.

I’ve been home a week and already tackled one of these projects. It helped ease the post-trip withdrawal and left me less homesick for a former home. It was gratifying, not an obligation. Upon completing it, I promptly moved to a pair of pants that I very enthusiastically stitched up despite it filling no discernible gap in my wardrobe. I’m really nailing this balance thing.

This is all to say that I’m coming around to the idea that there’s nothing wrong with being a little egotistical in one’s recreational pursuits. I don’t expect my husband to switch hobbies to something that directly benefits loved ones, so why should I carefully control my pastime of choice as to make it a 50/50 split between contributions to my closet and contributions to the closets of others? As I’ve stated over and over, I sew for a multitude of reasons: to build skills, to have clothes that fit my body, to develop a sense of style, for the pure satisfaction of it, and, finally, because it gives me tremendous pleasure to make the perfect object for someone I care about—when I want to, not because I need to. Now that I think about it, then, maybe it’s all selfish sewing. I’m fine with that.