Yesterday, in furious domestic flurry, I managed to sew a button onto one of my dress shirts.
I can’t say I enjoyed it. Can’t say I did a particularly good job at it. Can’t even that say I didn’t end up bleeding all over the carpet. At the end of the day, however, the button is secured to the shirt, and I didn’t end up having to beat one of the cats to death.
I’m wearing the shirt right now, and though it’s a bit askew, I’m reasonably pleased with how things look. I may not be Garry Shandling, but I look pretty good. (Confession: I don’t know who Garry Shandling is.) Everybody says that my most striking physical feature is my height, but they’re wrong. It’s this button. Second, my eyes. Third, my beguilingly asymmetical nostrils.
The most difficult part of the sewing procedure by far was the act of threading the needle. There I was, holding my breath in concentration, fingers trembling, trying to coax a flaccid little thread into a tauntingly miniscule opening. Straining matters further was the fact that my son Oliver (whom I was supposed to be watching) was running around grabbing “no touches” like a fat man in a pudding fortress. I would spend a few consecutive moments trying to thread the needle, then swat my arm blindly and offer a beleaguered, distracted grunt Oliver’s way. My efforts at multitasking failed just as surely as if I had tried to fondle one of my guy friends but then pass it off like I was just joking.
So my new button looks all right, and I’m reasonably proud of myself. I hope that you are proud of me, too. That’s really what this entire website is about, I suppose. I want you to approve of me and to offer me a nurturing backrub and we’ll see where things go. Is that really so much to ask, dear readers? After all, I did sew on a button yesterday.