Like virtually every other shirt or dress I've ever owned, it wants to slide off my shoulders. I'd blame my utter lack of sewing skills, but they've picked up more than their share of blame for this project. My shoulders just point down and entropy, like gravity, goes along for the ride.

I finished all principal sewing on my Halloween costume tonight. In fact, I am wearing it, breathless and giggling, as I write these words; I am giving my body a few minutes to relearn how to sit properly in a dress of this type.Scratch 'relearn.' I've never worn anything remotely like this.

It would be easier to concentrate if the air currents from the ceiling fan weren't tickling the curls that have fallen out of my ponytail. Several hours (and seams) ago, it was a neat and smooth ponytail, but after making the dress wearable by sinking a zipper into its back, I realized it was time to dance. At one a.m., Stevie Wonder got free rein of the stereo and I, barefoot, turned in circles in the living room, laughing at the feeling of keeping my skirts balanced in the air and the contrast of my sky-blue toenails peeking out under Renaissance garb.

By the time the songs ended, I was breathless and laughing, my hair indulging entropy and gravity to tickle my neck.

I wish I could say it was done. The skirts need a little hook on the back so that the overskirt can cover the bottom of the zipper, and I still have to clean up and wrap some hems to prevent them from fraying. Once all that is done, I will put trim down the front of the dress and around the neckline.

I only had to cut six inches off the dress hem to make it fit me. Surprisingly enough, it's far easier to walk in the dress now.

It's a good thing, because this next weekend, at Bill's party, I'm not just going to walk in it; I plan to dance. I'll pin my bra straps to the shoulders and wrap my hands in the sides of my skirts and, given a little music and half an opportunity, will find a way to make these hours of sewing worth it.

Current music:
Stevie Wonder, Songs In The Key Of Life
David Mead, The Luxury of Time