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External adaptation
Dec. 23rd, 2022 09:57 amI'm writing about sewing again, but this is really a post about clothing in general.
Most of the time clothing is at least a little uncomfortable for me. It can be a problem in several ways: it can restrict movement, which then limits my abilities and can also be hard on my muscles and joints since I have to do movement workarounds to accomplish what I need to. It can give me distracting or painful sensations, anything from full-on hives or shooting pain in my legs to just low-level static that I don't notice which takes up some cognitive load to manage. And then, it can fail to keep me protected from the elements so I'm cold (or whatever) (and then can still have those other issues).
Clothing has always been uncomfortable for me so I don't think about it much. I grew up in a place where clothing was necessary for comfort but not for survival and most of my clothing was from thrift stores; it kind of fit, it was made from whatever.
When I was just out of high school, I remember my mom trying to get my brother go to for walks. He lived with dad, and he wouldn't. Eventually they realized that his shoes were too small, so it hurt him quite a bit to walk with her. I remember thinking at the time that limiting comfortable clothing was such an effective way of controlling someone, of limiting their ability to take joy in the world outside their home.
When I first started summer studenting up north I had more freedom to get myself clothing than I'd had before, ever: I was making some money, and it was important that I spend some of that money on clothing that enabled my work; you don't go to the bush in jeans. I bought into a mostly-proper layering system, on sale so weird colours and kind of cobbled together from merino or standard waffle knit skin layer pants with used army pants over them; a wicking running sock with wool oversocks; thin quick-dry tank tops with either sheer cotton men's dress shirts or my one prized brand-name moisture-moving thick wicking long-sleeved shirt; a brand-name slightly puffy zip jacket. I wasn't entirely new to this sort of thing, since I'd been working in landscaping for years, but in landscaping I could work harder when I was cold and soak a headscarf with a hose if I was too hot. It was in landscaping where I started wearing a headscarf, which is possibly the best extreme-weather-mitigating piece of clothing I've found. In timber cruising it was full speed ahead through effectively an obstacle course, lifting legs to step over hip-height or belly-height logs, bending down and slithering under, all that jazz. Then, once I got to the plot, it was standing still and taking very careful measurements for an amount of time, writing it down, and starting the whole thing over again. My clothing also had to deal with unconventional movements: lifting my legs up to belly-button height to climb over logs, or bending to squirm under them.
I more-or-less got the right clothes. This is where I started to learn that clothing didn't have to be uncomfortable, but I didn't fully realize it at the time. I was living in a cold environment so I couldn't use the clothing workarounds I'd used before, light unconfining dresses and tank tops. A lot of people wore this sort of bush clothes to the bush. Cold in the north just didn't affect my body as much. I did notice just a little that when I went back to the coast for the winter I felt freer outside but I just thought I was in better shape, or didn't think too much of it.
Fast forward seven years and a lot of those clothes have worn out. I'd sewn a batch of similar stuff my second year in the bush to supplement what I got on sale the first year; it's much cheaper to sew with fancy fabrics than it is to buy already-sewn objects. I've spent the last couple years buying the cheapest versions of the more obviously-necessary layers (merino long underwear wears out fast, especially the cheap stuff) and my outer layers have been slowly degrading and I've been wearing whatever is to hand overtop: stretch jeans, socks meant to be an all-in-one system, long underwear tops with a scarf since my fancy light jackets have been seriously compromised at this point. My favourite non-farm boots wore out and the new pair, bought more cheaply, is still insulated but doesn't breathe as well so my feet get damp and then cold, especially without a two-layer sock system.
My world gets smaller.
And I don't just mean I'm not as good in the bush. As I conserve that fancy expensive wear for bush work I wear lined jeans or cotton shirts with a sweater in the house or to work, and my world there is smaller too. My house is really unevenly heated, so I avoid sitting in the cooler parts of it. The waistband on jeans or bought long underwear doesn't fit as well, so it does that weird thing where when I sit for too long my legs get jumpy and painful. I spend less time outside since it's usually colder. I spend less time bending and stretching since my clothes have far less range of position than my body does, so I avoid activities that ask for bending and stretching; I sew a little less, I garden a little less, I never spontaneously break into dance in my livingroom. I don't go outside and get down on the ground with the animals as much because the warm stuff I have left is more like conventional sweaters, and it picks up dirt and straw. I'm less likely to go for walks with folks at work because my boots are more slippery on the bottoms than my old ones. My warm gloves wore out so I just don't touch things in the winter as much; not as many projects get done.
And not just my movement is limited. My expectation of comfort reduces as well. Little by little I tune out the scratchy itchy whine of my skin when there's cool pressure put on it, or the hot prickle of bits of straw that aren't excluded by the loose weave of cheap long underwear or by an outer layer that I go without as often as possible because it bites into my upper hips. Little by little I associate being too cold with being out of bed and going about my day is tinted with shoulders lifted and tensed against that discomfort.
None of these are huge impositions. I'm not shivering in a corner over here; if I was I'd get a blanket. I can bend down and touch my toes better than most people even in jeans over long underwear. I don't know whether this is a sensory sensitivity thing, if most people just don't experience this kind of limitation from their clothing. I don't know if this is a poor thing, if most people allocate a larger percentage of their budget and are more able to regularly get clothing that suits their needs.
I do know that it erodes my quality of life.
So this winter I spent a bunch of money on fancy fabric; military surplus and off-print technical fabric to cut down on price. I spent enough to buy maybe even four fancy outer garments. I'm slowly working my way through sorting patterns to fit my body, and then I expect to turn out several years' worth of garments. This post is being written in my second tester shirt; the first one I wore, unfinished and not quite the right fit, three times in the first week I made it. This one I put on to test the neckline (need to adjust it) and I haven't been able to bring myself to take it off. It's comfortable.
I'm looking forward to being warm again, and being able to move again?
But also as I do this I'm feeling so grateful to what allows me to take on this project: some days off over the winter, and lots of time to myself in the evenings. A storage container supplied by a friend that allows me to have enough room to store things outdoors, which allows a clear sewing table indoors for a couple months and which will allow for stored extra fabric. A sewing machine I had the luxury of toting with me through over a dozen moves, and another machine given me by a friend. A lineage of women who sewed: my grandmother's sewing machine that I learned on, my mom's patience and willingness to explain principles and then allow me freedom to play on the machine as a child instead of making it a chore I was doing wrong. A short course in high school that contained a sewing element. An explosion of sewing videos on youtube, which help me understand the flippy funhouse-mirror spatial aspects of constructing shapes out of other shapes. And the time, patience, and cognitive function to think through my plans, to test things, to problem-solve those tests, to try again and again until I understand what's wrong, fix that thing, and manage to do it right. These are all rare in life, luxuries that support the luxury of my fancy garments.
Clothing is one of those things humans do; it allows us to adapt to so many environments. The right clothing allows us to adapt better to environments, sometimes in surprising ways. Tonight I'm thinking about how different my experiences of that adaptation have been, and wondering just how much quality of life could be improved if everyone could access comfortable, suitable clothes.
Most of the time clothing is at least a little uncomfortable for me. It can be a problem in several ways: it can restrict movement, which then limits my abilities and can also be hard on my muscles and joints since I have to do movement workarounds to accomplish what I need to. It can give me distracting or painful sensations, anything from full-on hives or shooting pain in my legs to just low-level static that I don't notice which takes up some cognitive load to manage. And then, it can fail to keep me protected from the elements so I'm cold (or whatever) (and then can still have those other issues).
Clothing has always been uncomfortable for me so I don't think about it much. I grew up in a place where clothing was necessary for comfort but not for survival and most of my clothing was from thrift stores; it kind of fit, it was made from whatever.
When I was just out of high school, I remember my mom trying to get my brother go to for walks. He lived with dad, and he wouldn't. Eventually they realized that his shoes were too small, so it hurt him quite a bit to walk with her. I remember thinking at the time that limiting comfortable clothing was such an effective way of controlling someone, of limiting their ability to take joy in the world outside their home.
When I first started summer studenting up north I had more freedom to get myself clothing than I'd had before, ever: I was making some money, and it was important that I spend some of that money on clothing that enabled my work; you don't go to the bush in jeans. I bought into a mostly-proper layering system, on sale so weird colours and kind of cobbled together from merino or standard waffle knit skin layer pants with used army pants over them; a wicking running sock with wool oversocks; thin quick-dry tank tops with either sheer cotton men's dress shirts or my one prized brand-name moisture-moving thick wicking long-sleeved shirt; a brand-name slightly puffy zip jacket. I wasn't entirely new to this sort of thing, since I'd been working in landscaping for years, but in landscaping I could work harder when I was cold and soak a headscarf with a hose if I was too hot. It was in landscaping where I started wearing a headscarf, which is possibly the best extreme-weather-mitigating piece of clothing I've found. In timber cruising it was full speed ahead through effectively an obstacle course, lifting legs to step over hip-height or belly-height logs, bending down and slithering under, all that jazz. Then, once I got to the plot, it was standing still and taking very careful measurements for an amount of time, writing it down, and starting the whole thing over again. My clothing also had to deal with unconventional movements: lifting my legs up to belly-button height to climb over logs, or bending to squirm under them.
I more-or-less got the right clothes. This is where I started to learn that clothing didn't have to be uncomfortable, but I didn't fully realize it at the time. I was living in a cold environment so I couldn't use the clothing workarounds I'd used before, light unconfining dresses and tank tops. A lot of people wore this sort of bush clothes to the bush. Cold in the north just didn't affect my body as much. I did notice just a little that when I went back to the coast for the winter I felt freer outside but I just thought I was in better shape, or didn't think too much of it.
Fast forward seven years and a lot of those clothes have worn out. I'd sewn a batch of similar stuff my second year in the bush to supplement what I got on sale the first year; it's much cheaper to sew with fancy fabrics than it is to buy already-sewn objects. I've spent the last couple years buying the cheapest versions of the more obviously-necessary layers (merino long underwear wears out fast, especially the cheap stuff) and my outer layers have been slowly degrading and I've been wearing whatever is to hand overtop: stretch jeans, socks meant to be an all-in-one system, long underwear tops with a scarf since my fancy light jackets have been seriously compromised at this point. My favourite non-farm boots wore out and the new pair, bought more cheaply, is still insulated but doesn't breathe as well so my feet get damp and then cold, especially without a two-layer sock system.
My world gets smaller.
And I don't just mean I'm not as good in the bush. As I conserve that fancy expensive wear for bush work I wear lined jeans or cotton shirts with a sweater in the house or to work, and my world there is smaller too. My house is really unevenly heated, so I avoid sitting in the cooler parts of it. The waistband on jeans or bought long underwear doesn't fit as well, so it does that weird thing where when I sit for too long my legs get jumpy and painful. I spend less time outside since it's usually colder. I spend less time bending and stretching since my clothes have far less range of position than my body does, so I avoid activities that ask for bending and stretching; I sew a little less, I garden a little less, I never spontaneously break into dance in my livingroom. I don't go outside and get down on the ground with the animals as much because the warm stuff I have left is more like conventional sweaters, and it picks up dirt and straw. I'm less likely to go for walks with folks at work because my boots are more slippery on the bottoms than my old ones. My warm gloves wore out so I just don't touch things in the winter as much; not as many projects get done.
And not just my movement is limited. My expectation of comfort reduces as well. Little by little I tune out the scratchy itchy whine of my skin when there's cool pressure put on it, or the hot prickle of bits of straw that aren't excluded by the loose weave of cheap long underwear or by an outer layer that I go without as often as possible because it bites into my upper hips. Little by little I associate being too cold with being out of bed and going about my day is tinted with shoulders lifted and tensed against that discomfort.
None of these are huge impositions. I'm not shivering in a corner over here; if I was I'd get a blanket. I can bend down and touch my toes better than most people even in jeans over long underwear. I don't know whether this is a sensory sensitivity thing, if most people just don't experience this kind of limitation from their clothing. I don't know if this is a poor thing, if most people allocate a larger percentage of their budget and are more able to regularly get clothing that suits their needs.
I do know that it erodes my quality of life.
So this winter I spent a bunch of money on fancy fabric; military surplus and off-print technical fabric to cut down on price. I spent enough to buy maybe even four fancy outer garments. I'm slowly working my way through sorting patterns to fit my body, and then I expect to turn out several years' worth of garments. This post is being written in my second tester shirt; the first one I wore, unfinished and not quite the right fit, three times in the first week I made it. This one I put on to test the neckline (need to adjust it) and I haven't been able to bring myself to take it off. It's comfortable.
I'm looking forward to being warm again, and being able to move again?
But also as I do this I'm feeling so grateful to what allows me to take on this project: some days off over the winter, and lots of time to myself in the evenings. A storage container supplied by a friend that allows me to have enough room to store things outdoors, which allows a clear sewing table indoors for a couple months and which will allow for stored extra fabric. A sewing machine I had the luxury of toting with me through over a dozen moves, and another machine given me by a friend. A lineage of women who sewed: my grandmother's sewing machine that I learned on, my mom's patience and willingness to explain principles and then allow me freedom to play on the machine as a child instead of making it a chore I was doing wrong. A short course in high school that contained a sewing element. An explosion of sewing videos on youtube, which help me understand the flippy funhouse-mirror spatial aspects of constructing shapes out of other shapes. And the time, patience, and cognitive function to think through my plans, to test things, to problem-solve those tests, to try again and again until I understand what's wrong, fix that thing, and manage to do it right. These are all rare in life, luxuries that support the luxury of my fancy garments.
Clothing is one of those things humans do; it allows us to adapt to so many environments. The right clothing allows us to adapt better to environments, sometimes in surprising ways. Tonight I'm thinking about how different my experiences of that adaptation have been, and wondering just how much quality of life could be improved if everyone could access comfortable, suitable clothes.
