I went to the gallery today to deliver the last two garments I was able to make from nothing. Two weeks ago, delivering two scarves I made "before the fall," Diane mentioned a customer demonstrated her yoga skirt and said one in handwoven would be cool.
What are you talking about? I now will know a yoga skirt if I see it on a person exiting a yoga studio. If you run wearing yoga pants or spandex, if you ride your bike wearing spandex, if you actually practice the art of yoga, the activities conclude, and you and your friends duck into your favorite coffee shop for a latte.
God forbid your butt hang out now, so you throw on your yoga skirt. It's only job is to cover the same butt that jogged the trail, rode the bike or did downward faceing dog. Mine was not to question, especially as a yoga skirt merely is a sixties wrap skirt, that anyone can make. Even a weaver with only one decent length of fabric in her stash.
Always too clever for my own good, I decided to put a series of button loops on one side of the fabric and buttons pretty much around, for a rather infinitely variable size feature. This so I could avoid making draw strings, though I remained on the hook for twisted cord. I made the skirt, and I did not like it. Nevertheless, I would hang it on the rack and see if it went off in a bag.
This morning I decided it needed a tweak, so back to the sewing machine. On the way by I put it around my sister's shoulders. Like it was meant to be, there hung an understated little wrap that buttoned down the front. I immediately made another and delivered two. I forgot to take a picture. I did do a count of coat hangers on the rack and see I've sold another ten or so garments this month. And, I cannot throw a shuttle.
It has been four weeks, and my intention of being half through the ordeal isn't panning out. Two sets of X-rays show no separation, but one round of therapy was disheartening. A couple of the exercises were cake, but another showed up a problem I already put up with--severe arthritis in that shoulder. Moving the arm away from my body now is too painful to contemplate. I made it through three snaps of my shoulder. "It sounds just like a rachet," I groaned. "No more!" Jamie laughed and said that's exactly what is is called, racheting, as bone spurs snap past each other. I must bring this to the attention of the orthopedic fellow this week.
I hope I find another Plan B around the corner.
I neglected to take a picture of my yoga skirt cum shrug this morning, but here are pussy willows behind a gallery, with no idea it isn't spring.