How I Sewed a Pair of Trousers… and Finally Wore Them, Half a Decade Later
Considering that I beg and plead with everyone I know who sews to please, pretty-please sew me stuff, it never fails to amuse the afore-mentioned sewing friends discover my secret… that I can actually sew myself. I am just not very good at it. But more importantly, I really, really hate doing it.
My loathing for the process of sewing is more or less inversely proportional to my love and appreciation of hand-sewn clothes. It is a truly weird dilemma I have struggled with for ages. I have tried many things to inspire and motivate myself. Different types of sewing machines. ‘Better’ sewing machines. Vintage sewing machine. Sewing classes. One-on-one sewing tutoring sessions. Sewing books. New, alternative approaches to sewing.
My latest, last ditch attempt happened several years ago, when for 2 eventful months I was an apprentice at the Dungiven Flax Mill in Northern Ireland. Even after quite a bit of time has passed, I still can’t quite believe that really happened. But happen it did. The details of my short-lived career as a textile worker will have to wait for another time. But suffice to say, sewing was involved. Lots of sewing, very fast sewing, to a quota and to a deadline, on an industrial machine powered by a diesel generator. The sound of that sewing machine and the smell of the generator still haunt me!
But I digress.
Point being: I did the apprenticeship in hopes that it would finally help me overcome my dislike for sewing, transforming me into a fast, capable, confident, professional-quality sewist. Instead, it turned what was previously a mere dislike of sewing, into an almost PTSD-like aversion! After my stint at the mill ended, I never wanted to as much as look at a sewing machine again.
Nevertheless, I did learn some valuable things during my failed attempt at mill work. One of them - unexpectedly enough - was sewing pattern construction. Or rather, deconstruction. ‘If you want to know how a store-bought piece of clothing is made,’ my boss explained as we discussed making one’s own clothes, ‘simply take it apart at the seams. Then trace the pieces, make adjustments as needed, and sew your own version.’
It was such a logical thing, and yet it never occurred to me. So, whilst still at the mill, I decided to use this method to sew myself a pair of basic trousers - using some beautiful grey wool, that had been woven in-house.
I took apart an old worn-out pair of trousers that fit me well, traced the pieces, added a bit of additional ease just in case, cut out the new fabric, and sewed it together. I even added darts at the back to custom-fit the shape of my behind. All this took less than an afternoon in total, and I was immensely pleased with myself… until I realised that I had no idea how to properly do the ‘little things’ - such as the zipper/ button placket, and the waist band. Unsurprisingly, those details proved quite fiddly and tricky - especially because I did not plan for them in advance, but was attempting to do them after the fact.
Working on the project in evenings alongside my mill apprenticeship, and knitting design work, I got as far as finishing the waistband and adding a front placket. But what finally broke me, was trying to figure out how to cleanly fit a zipper or buttons. I was starting to fray and damage the fabric. So I put the trousers aside, hoping to return to them after a break. But I never did.
Not long after that, I got pregnant. My body changed, and even after the birth it morphed into a new shape rather than returning to its former proportions. Once in a while I would remember the unfinished trousers, but assumed they would not fit me at this point. What a waste of fabric!
Finally, about a month ago, I was doing a clear-out and found the neglected trousers languishing in a bag. On a whim, I tried them on. And to my amazement, they fit! Before I had time to change my mind, I grabbed the bag, and brought it to our nearest alterations place. Explaining that I made these trousers myself but got in over my head when it came to the front placket, I asked if they could install a zipper. The woman examined my creation, tugged at the seams, and gave me a disapproving look. ‘You were fit to do all this yourself, but can’t do a zipper??’
I hung my head in shame. But gave her the trousers nevertheless, because I knew there was no way in heaven I would ever touch them myself with a needle and thread again.
Several days later, the trousers were ready, with zipper in place. I put them on and wore them that very day, half-expecting them to come apart at the seams.
They did not.
The trousers are not perfect. But they are reasonably wearable. Though of course, after half a decade not only has my body and age and preferences have changed, but trends have changed.
If I were making these again, I would have made them a bit looser around the hips and bum, and perhaps a bit wider around the legs. Maybe a high rise palazzo/ sailor style, as opposed to the mid-rise straight leg that these are, fairly fitted through the hips and thighs.
So what is the moral of this story, if there is any? To be honest, I am not sure there is one. I am glad I have these trousers now, as a wearable memento of my sincere attempts to persevere at a craft that is simply not my thing. I don’t think I’ll ever sew another pair again. But after everything I’ve gone through with my failed pursuits at sewing, I appreciate those who do it all the more. And I also appreciate the fact that I actually enjoy, and excel at my own craft - knitting - in an entirely unforced and organic manner.
Handmade Outfit
Hat: Wave Run Beret
Sweater: Longlast Pullover
Trousers: DIY
