Almost daily, my boyfriend likes to remind me that he thinks I came straight out of the 1800s (depending on the day, sometimes a century or two earlier). I generally laugh it off-- sarcasm and jokes are an essential part of our relationship-- but today I came to a horrific, awful, terrifying realization: I sometimes do things that I suppose aren't normal for my age group and would be more well-suited for a "back in my day" story.
This morning I cracked open another book, not on my Kindle (not that I have one...), but an actual book, binding and that awesome "new book smell" and all.
Later, I picked up a needle and thread and patched up a faulty seam in my shirt. Since I was already in the midst of sewing a blanket for the looming fall and winter months, I got that back out as well and started stitching. Old school style. I opted out of the sewing machine option so that I could sit on the porch swing with my tea at the same time.
Of course, I could have chosen to finish the other blanket I started crocheting a few years ago before getting distracted.
Granted, this is just one day's events...but I guess for now, call me Laura Ingles.
Hey Laura...I was wondering if when you were done with your knitting if you would make me some Doilies
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