I stink at sewing. In eighth grade Home Ec class, we had to make an outfit. I decided to make an outfit for Christmas: a long red skirt and a red and green paisley print sleeveless mock turtleneck top. There was a bit of trouble with the waistband on the skirt, but it only had a 6" zipper, so somehow I managed to get it together.
Whatever possessed me to choose a top pattern with an 18" zipper, I don't know. It was a moment of temporary insanity. I was trying to put the zipper in the night before the outfit was due. I put it in and tore it out three times before I literally threw it in the trash. Oh, God, just kill me now. This is where sewing and I permanently parted ways.
My mom came home from work, saw it in the trash, and pulled it out. I told her she might as well leave it there because I'd had it; I was done. I told her, "Mrs. Stitchwright can fail me; I don't care!"
My mother, being a kindhearted and practical woman, without any fanfare or fuss, then proceeded to install the pesky zipper for me. I got an A, or, I should say, my mother got an A. She deserved it!
If I were on a deserted island and told the only way I could get off was to sew, I'd die there.