I have great friends. Through-thick-and-thin kinds of friends. Get-me-off-this-ledge friends. Take-a-bullet-for-you friends. So when one of them asks for the occasional favor, I’m all in.
Beta read your latest story? So in my wheelhouse. Hand the pages over now.
Bucket list driver? You bet. I’ll get the pics-or-it-didn’t-happen shots, too.
Basement clean-out? Uh-huh. Hand me a garbage bag.
As long as the favor doesn’t involve cooking…
I can’t with the cooking.
My astute friends know better than to ask anything of this nature. Even sending me to the store to pick out salad ingredients or ice cream to please a crowd will summon stress sweats and a dozen clarification texts from my phone to theirs.
There are so many other ledges to back me away from. They simply don’t have the time for this particular one. The ledge where I call them in despair with complaints that my soup’s too thick and now it’s stew, and you didn’t ask for stew; you asked for soup.
Or that my cake batter was too thin, and it baked up like a wonky cracker, and you didn’t ask for a wonky cracker; you asked for cake.
Or how much lettuce? Why are there so many kinds of lettuce? And who will die if they eat a tomato? There are so many salad dressings. Why are there so many salad dressings? How much ice cream? Again with ALL THESE FLAVORS!
And isn’t someone lactose intolerant?
Oh. Yeah. That’s us. The Hubs and I are both teetering on the edge of lactose intolerant. I’ll just go without. But what do I bring for him? What if everyone else would rather have what he’s having and is now grumpy because they’re stuck with too much of the wrong flavor of ice cream while he eats a Twinkie? What if they all want Twinkies, and I’ve brought just the one Twinkie?
I’m breaking out in a fevered sweat just typing the above hypothetical.
Breathe. Blink. I don’t have to worry about these scenarios because there are no upcoming pitch-ins, and my gang won’t ask such things. I’m in charge of disposable cutlery. I can handle disposable cutlery.
Or dish clean-up.
Or (and this is my favorite), just let me throw some cash at you to cover what I might consume and call it a good day.
This brings me to the favor.
We shall dub this ask “The Yellow Fabric Favor.”
The Yellow Fabric Favor came via text from my friend (the Yak Balls and White Van Willies woman):
Need a favor… could you run into Walmart and see if they have 1 ½ yds of bright yellow cotton fabric? If you have time. Fabric needs to be bright yellow.
This is very concrete, workable information: the store, the measurement, and the material.
I’ve got the color—twice.
Though I was on the clock, I did have time to complete this simple task before I was due elsewhere.
So here we go with The Yellow Fabric Favor. Remember, I’m on the clock…
I arrive at Walmart. It’s late afternoon, and the place is packed.
I sidestep my way past all manner of locals to the craft department. They once had two whole aisles of fabric bolts and a large cutting table.
Not anymore. The cutting table is one-third the size. I find a dozen bolts of gaudy print—like something you’d cover a ‘90s throw pillow with. Not yellow. Not cotton. Easy no’s.
Down another aisle hangs rows and rows of pre-cut selections. I see yellows. Pastels and middles and darks and brights. I pull off a bright. It’s a yard. She’d need two. I grab another. Check the content: 100% cotton. I’m on a roll… So much easier than ice cream.
Or salad dressing.
Then it happens.
The ledge.
What if she needs the fabric to be a continuous 1 ½ yards and I bring her two one-yard chunks? Her project will be dead in the water.
It’s August 28th today. Perhaps it’s due first thing in the morning. August 29th.
I take it upon myself to inflict this frantic deadline. For all I know, she won’t even start on it until next month. Too late. There’s a ticking clock in my head.
Two clocks, because I’m gonna be late to my own destination.
Yes. Yes. This is now an emergency sewing project. No time for errors. But she only gave me the measurement once. She mentioned color twice.
I switch the worry gears. They squeak and grind. They’ve seen a lot of use lately.
I hold the two single yards of fabric against the others. Is this bright enough? Too bright? Maybe my bifocals are skewing the shade. Maybe the fluorescent lights in this store are throwing off the hues.
This is for the take-a-bullet friend. I have to get this right. Even if she makes fun of my Yak Balls and is afraid of white vans.
I dodge a Sponge Bob-pajama-clad couple to pace to the end of the aisle. Hey. Sponge Bob is bright yellow. I think. Perhaps I should chase down that couple and hold the fabric against a Sponge Bob.
Yeah… probably not a good idea.
I feel the sweat coming. Flushed and fevered. I don’t like this ledge. It’s the cooking-for-a-crowd ledge. Ice cream and salad dressing. How’d I get here? This was supposed to be easy.
I.had.all.the.information.I.needed.
Some of it I had twice.
I pace to the end cap, where, on clearance, praise be, are bolts of plain cotton fabric. One of them is brighter yellow than the two single yards I have in my hand. Oh, yes. The stress releases from my shoulders. The sweat dries. I grab the bolt, rehang the first selection, and press the “Ring for Associate” button above the cutting table.
One small step away from the ledge, one giant step toward Yellow Fabric Favor success.
I send her a picture of the fabric as I wait. “Perfect color” comes the reply. Thank goodness. Another tiny step away from the ledge—
No.
Wait.
That fluorescent light thing.
Let’s keep the ledge in view.
An associate comes. She doesn’t cut fabric, but she knows someone who can. She leaves.
I wait some more.
The crowd gets thicker. The tension comes back in the right shoulder. Then the left.
A different associate comes—nope. Not the cutter, but he at least got the information out over the store’s intercom.
I text her:
The stress. It’s like you sent me to pick out produce. It’s not like I’m gonna be the one sewing this.
I could’ve written five chapters on the work-in-progress waiting at this cutting table. Or world-built an entire sci-fi universe. The passersby have no idea I’m memorizing them; they’ll be thrown without their knowledge or consent into some manuscript—
A big guy pulling a heavy dolly who doesn’t belong to the previously paged fabric-cutter’s name offers to help. I hesitate. (Yes, I know, I’m stereotyping. Apologies, kind Sir, you did know your stuff…)
Another step toward the ledge as I worry if he’s qualified. I mean, he’s nice and all, and he seems to know what he’s—
Annnd, he’s a talker. Did I know this was on clearance? No.
Did I know Walmart across the nation is getting rid of its cut fabric selection? No.
I’d better grab it before it’s gone. Great. Another clock.
Another worry. What if my friend needs this disappearing fabric? In all the shades? Sponge Bob yellow. Patrick pink? Squidward blue, even.
It’s too much. I can’t process.
I don’t hear much else of what he says over all these TICKING CLOCKS. I want to sternly inform him, “Sir, can you not hear that ticking? We’re having a life-or-death, risk-the-ledge sewing project emergency, and I need to get out of this store in the next five minutes.”
But I did not say this. The “freeze” mode of fight/flight/freeze has activated, and I have zero access to spoken words.
He gives me the remainder of the fabric on the bolt because it’s on clearance, and it makes his life easier. No cutting involved. All that wasted worry out on the ledge. I’m gonna need that energy to navigate this mass of soon-to-be-fictionalized characters and battle them for a spot at the checkout.
I make it to the car. I’ve accepted that I will arrive at my next stop battle-worn and sweaty. But I scored the yellow fabric. Bright. Plenty of yardage. From Walmart. All the boxes checked.
My FitBit buzzes. I look at my wrist. I’ve earned Zone Minutes.
I did cardio standing at that cutting table. Or, rather, out on the ledge.
Later, I’ll discover the yellow fabric was for a costume. For a small child. For Halloween. In October.
October!
This will put me on a ledge of another sort. Why do I do this to myself? Sewing emergency. Really?
I’ll blame author brain. Little Miss Muse spends too much time messing with my synapses, sending every situation nuclear. I’ll feel that fevered rush that requires venting.
Oh. Wait.
That’s what I’m doing now, yes?
Well. I suppose I’ll just go with it.
Dub it the Yellow Fabric Fever Vent. Then I’ll go write about pajama-clad hordes braving Walmart rush hour to find the perfect salad dressing for their ice cream.
Or their Twinkies in the case of borderline lactose intolerance.
