Sew Elegant
“Y
ou want to learn to what?” asked my husband of several months, looking at me as if I’d just informed him that I intended to swap my standard brown wig for a short, curly, blonde one.
“To sew,” I calmly replied.
“Sewing is for grandmothers, or people who work at the cleaners. Not for a regular girl who was class valedictorian, went to the right camps and top seminary, and is well on her way to getting her degree!”
I guess it was good my creative interests had never come up as a topic of conversation on any of our dates. I’d always wanted to learn to sew and I intended to learn.
Despite Ari’s strong feeling that sewing was a domestic art better left in the last century, he finally came around. I found a used sewing machine and enrolled in a sewing class.
Ari is one of 11 siblings and my mother-in-law has very definite opinions about matching gowns for all family members at family simchahs. With two sisters-in-law dating and our limited budget, there was no way I would be able to afford to rent or buy gowns for their weddings. I was determined to wear my very own creation to the next wedding.
Ari wisely held his tongue whenever he came home from night seder to find our table covered in swathes of fabric and pattern pieces. I valiantly pinned, cut, and basted my way through the course, and even managed to produce a basic skirt that was somewhat wearable.
Several months after I finished the course, Ari’s sister Hadassah got engaged. The l’chayim and vort passed in a haze of miniature pastries and elaborate floral arrangements. Then it was time for big decisions. “What’s the color?” texted my older sister-in-law, Adeena, on the family chat. Judging from the constant buzzing of my phone, a heated exchange ensued. I didn’t really care what color they chose because I had no intention of traipsing from gemach to gemach searching for the elusive perfect gown.
The next morning, I checked the chat to discover the verdict and felt a twinge of regret for not having participated in the discussion. Sage green was definitely not a color that suited me particularly well, but I had a job and classes to attend to and they were infinitely more important than looking sallow in someone else’s wedding pictures.
Life seemed to hit a frenetic pace after that. I had papers to write and exams to study for. The sweet-looking children who coughed and sniveled their way through the pediatric office where I worked kindly shared their colds and viruses with me. Pesach came and went, heralding spring, and before I knew it, the wedding was just weeks away.
“Shouldn’t you be thinking about a gown for the wedding?” Ari would occasionally ask.
“I’ve got it under control,” I answered each time. Truth be told, I hadn’t even gone to look for fabric or a pattern.
Three weeks before the wedding, we spent Shabbos at my in-laws. After a hectic week, I was looking forward to a Shabbos away. We bentshed licht Friday night and then made a beeline for the living room. Inevitably the conversation centered on the upcoming wedding, sheva brachos, and their myriad details.
My mother-in-law and sisters-in-law talked incessantly about their gowns and matching shoes, hairdos, and jewelry. It was obvious they were dying to know what I planned to wear, but I didn’t offer any information, and they were too polite to press me for details.
By Motzaei Shabbos, I was in a state of panic. What had I been thinking?! There was absolutely no way I could possibly sew a presentable gown for myself in the time left.
First I called all the gemachim in the Tri-State area, but none had any sage green gowns available in my size for the date I needed. I then stayed up half the night searching for a tzniyusdig pattern easy enough for a complete novice. I spent the other half of the night searching for a cheap gown online, but I couldn’t find anything in sage green.
To his credit, Ari didn’t once say, “I told you so.” Had I been in his shoes, I would have had a field day. On Sunday morning he took one look at my bleary-eyed face and handed me his credit card. “Please go get yourself a gown,” he begged.
I felt utterly defeated as I made my way into Joelle’s, the upscale boutique where I knew I was sure to find something that would suit even my mother-in-law’s discerning tastes. I looked through the carefully edited collection and came across a dainty floor-length lace skirt in just the right shade with a matching raw silk crop top. The designer outfit was prohibitively expensive, but I didn’t really have a choice at that point. I brought the outfit home and carefully hung it in the closet.
Later that day, I accompanied my friend, Malky, to the outlets, to distract myself from the horrible guilt I was feeling at having spent way more than we could afford. As we browsed Off Fifth, a familiar-looking crop top on the clearance rack caught my eye. I couldn’t believe it! A piece nearly identical to the one I had bought earlier that day, this time for a mere $29. Now I felt even worse.
The next day, my boss sent me to Wal-Mart during a lull in the action to restock our supply of Lysol and paper towel. I dutifully filled the cart and headed to the register. Passing through the bathroom accessories aisle, I noticed a ten-dollar shower curtain made of the exact dainty lace as the exclusive designer piece hanging in my closet.
This was all too much! It was surely a sign from Shamayim. My mind racing, I added the shower curtain to my cart. After work, I ditched class and headed straight for the clearance rack at Off Fifth. The crop top was still there and it rang up to just $15.
The hardest part was returning the designer outfit to Joelle’s. Normally they only allow exchanges or store credit, but that afternoon Joelle’s husband was manning the register. I explained that I had bought the outfit in a fit of desperation, but in the interim I had found a different option. “Don’t ever tell anyone I did this,” said “Mr. Joelle” with a twinkle in his eye. He put the outfit back on the rack and issued a full refund. From there I went to the fabric store and found a matching zipper and lining for $8.
I sailed into our apartment on a cloud of euphoria. I didn’t tell Ari anything about my purchases. Or returns for that matter. I served supper as usual, and Ari attributed my jolly mood to the fact that I was all set for the chasunah. When he left to night seder, I whipped out my wearable skirt pattern from the sewing course and the dainty lace shower curtain. I turned to Google to figure out how to lengthen the pattern and worked feverishly until just before Ari was due to return, hiding everything just in time.
The next night I carefully sewed it all together, zipper and all. Ari walked in just as I stood before the mirror, admiring my handiwork. Ari took in the sewing machine and the scraps of fabric. I had never actually seen anyone’s jaw drop until that moment. “Don’t tell me you actually made that,” he said as I twirled around for his approval.
“Out of a WalMart shower curtain, no less,” I proudly replied and proceeded to tell him the tale.
When we arrived for pictures on the day of the wedding, my mother-in-law and sisters- in-law complimented me on my choice of gown. “We saw that at Joelle’s when we were shopping for sheva brachos outfits,” said Hadassah, the kallah. “Mommy even said it would be perfect for you for the wedding.”
That’s when I let them in on my little secret. As the photographer lined us up for a family shot, my mother in-law turned her head ever so slightly and whispered in my ear, “Next time, at least let me treat you to the matching soap dish.”
(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 642)
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