The humbling, fumbling experience of learning something new
Why floundering can be good for you, the surprising freedom of being rubbish at something and resisting the #girlboss mantra to monetise your interests
I once flew to New York to rendezvous with an old flame (read: situationship) who I had become hopelessly obsessed with. Blame it on pandemic madness, the difficulty of moving home, my seeming inability to get over anything, but I had burnished this man to movie star status in my mind. We met up and I was confronted with the unsettling reality that he was, in fact, just a guy, one who was not particularly nice to me and that I had flown 3,000 miles at considerable expense to have this realisation. The next day I walked around Central Park reservoir with a friend venting about how bloody stupid I felt and she summed it up for me in five words: ‘This was a humbling experience.’
I had another one of those - but of a much, much better kind - yesterday.
A few weeks ago, I signed up for a sewing class. I felt bored, in a rut and desirous of some form of hobby that didn’t involve exercise, staring at a screen or words. I liked the idea of doing something creative that used my hands and I was inspired by my mother, a seriously talented seamstress who knocked up my sister’s wedding dress - still one of the most beautiful gowns I’ve ever seen - on her trusty Bernina. Did I also have daydreams of being one of those Instagram girlies who buy pillow cases from a charity shop and turn them into cute little blouses that they twirl around in? Perhaps.
In the morning, packing my bag with a notepad, fresh pens, pencils and a ruler, I felt like I was heading back to school. The class was held in an adult learning centre that looked just like a Victorian school - tall, redbrick, imposing - and I trotted up endless stairs until I reached the classroom to join seven other grownups (six women and one very handsome hipsterish-looking man) who had given up a sunny Saturday to learn something new.
The teacher, a no-nonsense woman who learnt to sew at the knee of her mother in Zimbabwe and told us she had been teaching people to sew in this room for the last 13 years, took register. She then gathered us around a Bernina - the most indestructible brand of sewing machine - to teach us about the pedal, the dial, the tension, the buttonhole function, the bobbin, the needle, the foot, etc.
You might not expect drama in a sewing class but from the very beginning this class was beset with fall outs. Within an hour, a row had kicked off between the teacher and a rather argumentative woman who took exception to the teacher’s assertion that it was pointless to attend a sewing class if you didn’t have a sewing machine at home. (I too didn’t have a sewing machine at home but I kept schtum.)
‘Well, I might as well leave then,’ the woman huffed.
Leave she did, reader, declining to return after our break. And she wasn’t the only drop-out. Another lady was reprimanded for not listening while our teacher explained how to pivot (putting the needle down, flicking the foot up, and turning the material to create a corner). That lady did not return after lunch and our teacher insisted that both drop-outs must be kicked off the group chat. Drama! I happily popped my eyes and sucked my lips at my new classmates over all the ructions and felt like a schoolgirl once more.
In the afternoon, we each sat in front of a sewing machine tasked with sewing different seams - a plain seam, a French seam, a double stitched seam and a flat felled seam.
And I was rubbish. While everyone else had hiccups but did seem to pretty much get the hang of it, I couldn’t even master the basics of linking the needle thread with the bobbin thread. That blasted bobbin (a teeny tiny spool of thread that sits in the bottom of the sewing machine) became the bane of my life for three hours. My fingers didn’t feel nimble and light, but like clumsy, thick sausages forever bungling the thread. And apparently I couldn’t even follow instructions. While everyone else understood that we weren’t supposed to sew the tacking on the line we would stitch, I absentmindedly sewed the tacking exactly where I was meant to stitch. \
I sat increasingly flustered in front of my Bernina with the teacher telling me to remember that ‘I was in control of the machine’.
‘I think you will be the brightest,’ she sweetly (and I suspect, dishonestly) said, ‘it’s always the students who struggle the most that turn out to do the most brilliant things.’
I was without doubt the class dunce - an experience I haven’t had in a while. Not because I’m so brilliant, but because I haven’t tried anything new in a while so I’m out of practice with the sensation of floundering. But that floundering - the mistakes, the bungling, the bambi-learning-how-to-walk of it all - is an essential part of learning.
It was, as my New York friend would say, a humbling experience. I think humbling experiences are good for one. Flying to see the guy and feeling rotten disappointment finally broke his spell over me. And I enjoyed the sewing class. From 10am to 4pm, my mind focussed on the minutiae of a sewing machine, on thread, stitches, endless kinds of seams and I think that’s good for the noggin. A day like that is a cleanser for the head.
What’s more, there’s something incredibly freeing about being rubbish at something but loving it anyway. As a millennial, I have worshipped at the altar of the Girl Boss and believed in its gospel of turning every hobby into a side hustle and dismissing any interest that cannot be monetised. But isn’t that the point of a hobby? To do it for fun and for free? In some ways, being so hopeless at sewing that there’s no way I’m opening up an Etsy shop anytime soon liberates me to just straightforward enjoy it.
Being crap at something doesn’t mean you don’t love it. For instance, I adore yoga. I’ve been practising consistently for about four years but if you were to see me do it, I expect you’d be surprised to learn I’ve attended a teacher training course. I still can’t do a headstand, handstand or any of the photogenic contortions that come up on my Instagram feed. I haven’t mastered the chaturanga. And yet, I love it. And I plan on regularly practising for the rest of my life.
So I’ll go back to sewing class next week - I wonder if there’ll be any more drop-outs? - and I’ll struggle on and perhaps one day I’ll make peace with the bobbin.
Some recommendations…
Wait, I don’t think I have any hobbies…
I absolutely loved this substack by
about discovering you don’t have any hobbies and are in fact addicted to The Internet. As a fellow internet-addict becoming more and more terrified that I am in fact scrolling my life away, her words spoke to me.Me and Mr Jones by Suzi Ronson
This is not out until April (I’m sorry, how very tedious to recommend something not available for six months), but I read it for work this week and could not put it down. It tells the story of Suzi Ronson, a girl from Bromley who dropped out of school, enrolled in hairdressing college and started doing David Bowie’s hair. She ended up as part of his entourage - taking care of his hair and costumes on a world tour and getting drawn into the world of rock and roll when it was at its most thrilling. You hear about the people she met along the way - Lou Reed, Bob Dylan, Iggy Pop - and I was completely gripped. Keep an eye out for it come spring.
Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier
I am rereading this absolute classic of a novel ahead of watching the Hitchcock version this week with some friends and the experience has reminded me of what an absolutely fantastic book it is and if you are looking for something unputdownable with romance, suspense, and gothic flair to keep you entertained as the nights draw in, you can’t go wrong with Daphne du Maurier’s masterpiece.
Woodwick candles
I have not yet read
’s book Wintering which has been recommended to me by all and sundry as the best book on how to make the winter season not only survivable but pleasurable. But I have taken on board her point about candles. In short, she says that we should take a Scandi approach to candles in the winter and light them all the time, rather than just for special or romantic occasions, to add some soft candlelight to the gloom.I have been trying to do this and, you know, a few candles going in a room does make it feel so much nicer. You can spend a hell of a lot on candles but I really recommend Woodwick Candles, which a dear friend recommended to me. They may be a basic bitch of a candle (Woodwick is owned by Yankee Candle) but they are also reasonably priced, fill a room with scent, but best of all have a wick that crackles like a log-burning fire. The one I have, burning as I write this, is Fireside, and smells of winter in all the best ways.
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Great article Isolde! I relate to the worshiping at the Girlboss alter and looking at every hobby as a 'failed side hustle'. It almost makes me want to keep my new hobbies totally private, as to protect them from being seen as potential business ventures. I really enjoy your vulnerable writing and sharing, thank you! xx