My little light bulb blew out the other day. Not the kind attached to my ceiling fan that needs a ladder – or my husband – to change out. Not the one screwed into the lamp on my nightstand that barely gives off enough light to tell whether or not my socks match. No, the one that “went” is far more useful to me. It belongs to my sewing machine. It’s just a little thing, rarely blown. Over sixteen years, I think I’ve only replaced it once. Maybe twice. Which is why I initially put off buying a new one.
I could not, for the life of me, remember how to remove the old one.
Sure, I could check the manual. But that required remembering where I put it.
Stubborn that I am, and a new project to pulling me harder than getting into a hot car and driving forty minutes for that 4 second errand, I turned the machine on and sewed. And squinted. And breathed loudly, which is one of several coping mechanisms for not saying those things I really don’t want to utter out loud. Or hear my daughter utter out loud. Well, one project done.
And that was it.
No matter how much I tried to encourage myself that my maternal ancestors sewed using treadles, and markedly less light that I surely had, I gave up. It was simply too hard to see. Too hard to tell if what I was making needed more seam ripping than my average product.
Not that I ever use a seam ripper…right? Hmm…
This made me wonder if perfection was held to a different standard back then, if function over perfect seams ruled the day. Or were they simply more attuned to the feel and motion of fabric, needle, and machine?
Regardless, somehow, without breaking it, I figured how to remove the little oblong light. And, somehow, without damaging the machine, I figured how to insert the new one.
Ah, light!
Now, onto “skill”. Too bad I can’t purchase that!
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