between stitches

Tonight I had every intention of reading Ricoeur--or, rather, beginning with Ricoeur: A Guide for the Perplexed (I love this series)--but somehow I couldn't. I finished off a bag of Chex mix (3/4 of a bag, to be scrupulously honest) and read a whole chintzy magazine and finally decided that if I was going to procrastinate, I was going to do something I actually wanted to do.

So I pulled open the blue bin that houses my magical collection of fabric and thread, did a whole lot of pressing, and then I pinned pattern tissue to cotton cloth, cut out the pieces with my shears, and sat down to try out my newly arrived sewing machine.

Oh, the delight. Oh, the joy. Oh, the sweet, sweet pleasure of needle and thread and fabric, the quiet hum, the coming together of seams and tucks and darts into something that's halfway to wearable. (It's a dress. I'll try to remember to post pictures when it's done.)

But now it's ten o'clock, and I really do need to do some of that reading I avoided, so I'm going to brush my teeth and crawl into bed and let the cool evening breeze soothe me into understanding yet another Important French Philosopher.