Nonfiction | March 01, 1988
I Can Do Nothing Well
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“I hate to sew,” I said to a co-worker who had just told me she was embroidering a table cloth. “I practically get hot flashes when I have to sew on a button,” I said. A little later, I added, “I never could learn to knit. My mother tried to teach me to knit scarves, but all I made were long strips with random holes.” She laughed, paused, and then said, “Well, what do you do well?” That stopped me.
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