Day One.

1 May . . . the day in the sewing world, online voyeurism enclave, of the start of Me Made.  In that regard, I guess I've been doing Me Made since 2013 now.  That being said, I've made no quiet voice about the disdain of selfies . . . and the body image notations one makes during the 30 days of Me Made.

Though, in 2013 I was nearing a year of being married, and what most now know is that my marriage was already on a very painful death.  That actually started six weeks after I do.  I'm not going into that here, but let's just say I stayed and held on for as long as I did from shame, status quo, and fear.  None of them are good reasons to stay . . . Though, looking back on the pictures the memories come back, in floods and spoils, about the incredible amount of begging to get him to take a photo, to partially engage in something I do (which, being a writer and with someone who doesn't believe in it  . . . ), and the skill changes. There was clear escapism occurring.  The latter is a better memory to traverse with . . .

The amount of jeans and silk things I make, the bras, and tees . . . we all know that around 90 percent of my closest is made by my hand.  We will get to the 90 percent in a second here.

 

Those are my traveller jeans up there, made with some quilting cotton pockets I picked up in Oregon last summer and a free-drawn compass on the fly.  I need to replace the zipper, as the one in play isn't meant for jeans, and I have no idea what I was thinking that night . . . It's a shorted heavy duty zipper . . . but not one for jeans.  So, I've been doing the old safety pin to the button trick to keep it in place.  Yeah, every woman over the age of thirteen knows that one.  

In a conversation with an old friend last night she noted that she has a degree in fashion design and I do things she can't.  Thanks I say.  The things I do . . . it's a release.  Much like writing is a function of my soul most days, sewing is an escape as I can't tolerate pedantic television and idle, inane conversations at bars insult my intelligence. And, no matter how good the single life can be it gets lonely sometimes . . . sewing is a combatant to the shadows hiding behind corners and between book pages. 

While making those jeans I was raging mad.  I'm talking like seeing red, want to punch someone mad.  Why? I alluded to some of it here, but the thrust of the matter is six months of being ignored taxes your soul.  A series of ill fated relationships weakens you.  I'm still pretty angry about the medical bullshit, but I have to carve my own path past it as I already know where I stand.  Especially in the eyes of others.  

All of that being said, this year Me Made . . . well, let's start with a pair of pink silk twill shorts I made 11 months ago.  I wore them all summer, they were fitted, as in if I ate too much at lunch I'd have to change pants.  I wore them across the country, on Limey, and on planes.  In October, I think, I packed them up as the leaves turned and the weather cooled.  Last month, we had a ridiculously warm day and I opened the cedar chest.  

Well . . . there's a photo from a month ago that I sent to six people . . .  and then I put them on again last night.  

Here's how I'm starting Me Made this year.  

Yeah.  A month ago I sent a similar pic to six people, and while they were big they were not this big.  Word.  For the record, I'm not altering these. . . though, I've been altering near everything in my closet.  Lord.  I positively hate altering.  

2017 is the year of steroids, as I've done two rounds and I've started the gnarly drugs and fucking inhalers.  Lupus is a bitch.  A little fucking bitch.  Upside, I can run again (most days), and I've perfected a talent to eat an unholy amount of fresh fruit.  The running--another escape--is my go-to at the moment.  Also, there's a half marathon in Chicago on my birthday.  I'm hoping that I can keep up this trajectory, and combat this Lupus bullshit and run my first race in a year and a half.  And . . . considering that I spent my 40th alone, stood up from an old friend, and in absolute hell as the man who said he loved couldn't even say "happy birthday" until I said something and the hell from work . . . I'm not over it, but I can at least find a way to protect myself this year.  Running a half, in July heat, has to be better than last year.  Has to be.  

I'm also done with most people and things.  Last week a professional and personal friendship was set on fire, and I'm not sure I'll stop feeling that singe for sometime.  Though, in retrospect . . . it's pretty normal as of late.  Not long ago I was with a dude, and while in various stages of undress he called me a hippo.  There are many, many reasons I am done.  

With that, it feels like spring today and I'm off to run and jog and gasp for air.  And pick up some groceries and coffee (the real adult beverage).  And work on an upcoming article and read my manuscript for the book one final time.  

And for what I'm really wearing today, on Me Made day one, as in tradition I'm working from home:

One Ogden Cami and one pair of Nessa Skinny Jeans that now fit like regular jeans, needing a belt, and that won't survive the month.  And things I made underneath I'm still not showing you, even after all these years.