Change Is Good
I've been catching up on the first season of Mad Men over the last few weeks, marveling at the exquisite attention to detail in recreating 1960s-era New York. The hairstyles, the fashions, the cars, the knick knacks, the interiors, the fashion. . . . The fine tailoring of all the beautiful dresses and skirts often has me musing how they just don't make them like they used to. Well, sometimes that's actually a good thing.
My sewing machine, a simple and graceful yet hardworking Elna, needed a tune-up and deep clean; the poor thing takes a lot of abuse. So I called around for quotes and, wouldn't you know, the only place that was open past regular business hours (i.e., when I'm working the day job) quoted me a price more than twice that of all its competitors and would take at least four days longer to service my machine. I griped a little to the sales person on the other end of the line and she eventually offered that they did have loaner machines. The thought of a week without my machine had perturbed me more than the extra cost, so I was sold. Until she showed me the machine, a 1960s-era Sears Kenmore:
Well, I thought, it looks sturdy. And they don't make them like they used to, right?
They certainly don't. This machine was loud, shook my entire sewing table when in use, had very nonintuitive controls (the manual didn't help much either) and, well, just wasn't my machine, you know? It's funny how dependant you can become on a certain way of doing things, how certain movements and actions you perform as if on autopilot. While using the Kenmore, I kept reaching for the controls in areas it doesn't have any because that's where they are on my Elna. I hadn't realized that using my machine had become second nature to me.
This may seem like an odd realization for a crafter, but I've had a very tempestuous relationship with sewing ever since my mom taught me how to use her machine when I was nine. I could never remember how to thread the machine, the controls never made much sense, and I didn't have enough patience to make even, straight stitches. Everything about sewing felt awkward to me. I hated my first machine with a front-laoding bobbin that contstantly jammed, hated the tissue-thin patterns that tore if you looked at them the wrong way, hated the funny special scissors my mom had for fabric only. To think then that someday using a sewing machine would become second nature to me and that not only would I be making my own patterns, but people I didn't know would want to buy the things I made!
The Kenmore taught me another lesson as well. I often grow nostalgic for eras I never knew, longing for what I perceive to be a simpler, less complicated time. Of course, I realize my own romanticized view of periods past likely doesn't hold up to the truth of what living in those eras was actually like. Progress is inevetable and fuels change. My week with a vintage sewing machine has reminded me that, often, such change really is for the better.
