I Blame My Mother

Today, in approximately one hour, I will be heading to work with a large hole in my pants.

You might think that (FINALLY) being a post-college employee of a decently respectable establishment, I'd have motivation to fix said hole (which, to complicate matters, resides right below my buns). But strangely, I do not. In fact, I just took a seat on my bed and looked at the pant options before me. And I spent ten whole minutes thinking about whether or not I could potentially walk up stairs in front of someone important enough to get me fired for wearing holey pants. And then I decided that if the risk were too great, I would simply use a different set of stairs. And I imagined how I would have to walk in order to disguise this hole.

Holly, you're saying, GET A GRIP. Go fix your pants. But what you don't know is that I have at least five other items I wear frequently, very frequently, that also need some sort of repair. My friends know a creamy little cardigan that has missed his fourth button since before I got engaged (looooong ago), and every time I wear it, I think, Whelp! Guess that button's still missing! Let's pretend that happened on the way to ________. Tallyho!

So there is nothing left to do but blame my mother. Most children of obsessed quilters (that's flattering, believe me) manage to inherit some crafty skills, or at least learn how to SEW A BUTTON. My mom was a short-order seamstress. Mom, can you make me new curtains? Mom, can you sew me a purse? Mom, can you make thirty-five custom makeup bags for my bridesmaids? And thus, I never learned. Not for her lack of trying, but why cook when the chef's already in the kitchen?

So today I am going to grow up and get my raggedy old wardrobe to the tailor. Mom, the USPS says it's coming by Friday.