Letter to the Seamstress

Dear Seamstress,

I don't know how to pick up the pieces after our last conversation. I came to you because I was in dire need (read my lips: in 12 hours) of a CONSERVATIVE dress for CHURCH.

I granted you full liberty to design the dress after your own definition of conservative never mind if I was a walking tent which the wind will knock down any moment.

I told you I am not really crazy over moss green because it reminds me to respect the environment. Do not cut trees! Especially this tree walking towards you. I should pin a large fuchsia silk flower on my chest. Then I would be a tree in bloom! But the color and style is not REALLY what shredded my confidence to pieces.

When the dress was delivered to me, I rushed to my room to try it on. I like chiffon. It makes me feel like a NATURAL woman so natural that with the dress you made, no one would doubt that I am INDEED a woman with all the curves in the wrong places. From what I recall from Project Runaway, there should be something called LINING inside.

I did like the round collar although when everything is quiet, I could hear blood starting to clot inside my throat. I like the sleeves too. How do you call them? At first, I like how the sleeves encircled my arms. Quite a good fit. But after 3 minutes, I stopped feeling my arms. My mom muttered under her breath, "Shortly, your arms will fall off!"

I came back to your shop, the soft, moss green thing limp on my arm. I handed the dress back to you as if it will bite me any moment. Please take it away. Now. NOW.

I told you about the lining. You said, you'd fix that. I told you about the sleeves. I told you about the waistline. I told you about how the dress clung to me TOO tightly. You didn't seem happy. You took out your little brown notebook from a drawer. Put on your glasses. Thumbed through the pages and I saw my name scribbled in your neat handwriting. You pointed to the numbers with that "I MADE THE DRESS WITH YOUR CORRECT MEASUREMENT according to my notebook" look. I just stared at you. You reminded me of my doctor flipping through my test results, contemplating how to explain to me that I am suffering from an infection which may have been caused by drinking too little and delaying trips to the bathroom too often.

As if you were disappointed with my surprised reaction--more like shocked reaction. You reached for your measuring tape. Oh no, here it goes. You encircled my waist with the magical tape then stuck your thumb on the two-digit number. You shook your head and leaned against the table as if suddenly, the world is about to crash.

Then you said the words that shattered me, "Five inches."

FIVE.

INCHES.

As if this was not enough, you stretched the magical tape and showed me the full length of FIVE inches. How could you? Then you gave me THAT look, that JUDGING look as if you know how many times I eat in a day and how much. I could see the thoughts percolating in your mind: She eats like there's no tomorrow, poor girl, she's probably depressed or lonely. Don't deny. You judged me right there and then.

You corrected the entry in your notebook. No, don't change that number! And you said you'd make the necessary changes.

On my way home, that single scene kept playing back like a looped scene in YouTube--zoom in on your mouth saying FIVE INCHES. Then zoom in on the measuring tape. FIVE INCHES.

As I joined my family for dinner, the short movie kept playing back--FIVE INCHES. I took a spoonful of Mom's chicken broth. FIVE INCHES. I took another spoonful. Then another. Then I stood up. My mom looked surprised. I could hear her thinking: she doesn't like my dish, she has been so used to city food that my 'ol time favorite native chicken soup with malunggay leaves became bland to her sophisticated taste.

I promised that night that I will exercise more, eat less fatty foods, less junk food, more fruits, more cereals, etc. I made plans to buy a yoga mat. Buy a yoga DVD. Or enroll at Fitness First. Or walk after work. Or buy Fitrum. Why not Xenical--to a NEW me! In my dreams, I saw myself running in circles inside a Julia Rothman intricate sketch.

You see, you could have just told me to fix the dress without saying those two words--FIVE INCHES. You could have been more sensitive by not giving me THAT look. Seamstresses should be careful about things like that after all, they are the keeper of a woman's great secret.

I know, these things should be beyond me. It must be being 30! Now, don't give me THAT look again.


your loyal costumer,
SC


Photo credit: One of the hand drawn illustrations of Julia Rothman