Loose Ends
Practice doesn't always help
Susan Nienow

As the years go by, I have kept a list of things I probably shouldn't do. Sometimes it is for selfish reasons, but other times, it is for the betterment of mankind.

Anyone needing microsurgery can thank whatever school gave me a manual dexterity test. We had to make as many double vertical marks crossed at the top as we could during a timed period. I flunked. They didn't even soft pedal it - the message was just don't try to repair watches or make miniature dollhouse furniture. So, don't put me on speed dial for your carpal tunnel surgery.

Through the years I have had clarinet and piano lessons, taken up cross-stitch, bought a calligraphy set - all in the name of improving my manual dexterity. I can't play the clarinet or the piano, though I do hum.

My cross-stitch grand masterpiece is a rocking horse with a flowing mane and tail in 42 shades of light gray that all look the same. I started it when my daughter was four years old, so I could make her a pillow. She is 27 now and only asks when her pillow is going to be done when I try to tell her how to do something.

It's not lack of finger skill that is keeping me from finishing this decades-long project. I can't see anything that small anymore. Anyone know a cross-stitcher for hire?

I have been counting, adding, subtracting, dividing and multiplying for years. You would think with all that practice I would be able to do it fast and get it right.

My other half volunteered to hit some tennis balls with me. When I missed, he brought up the physics (or is it geometry?) of the game - angle of the ball, percentages of the shot. When we got home, he drew diagrams for me. Now he plays golf.

I made curtains once. They were pleated with two panels on each side. Three of the four panels ended up the same length, but the fourth was two inches too short. So I changed three hems, moved the rods down and hung the curtains. They were three quarters of an inch shorter than the window sill.

My other half temporarily lost his senses and asked the D question: "Didn't you measure?" and then, before I could even glare at him, he added, "How can you get three right and one wrong?"

I didn't even understand that one. "Of course, I measured," I hissed. "I must have made a mistake somewhere."

Here is where logic and good sense don't work. He took the curtains and tried to figure out what I had done wrong. Only two things mattered to me: Could they be salvaged and if not, which trash can is big enough to hold them?

And one more thing - if they can't be fixed, we are putting up blinds.

Now we have an unspoken agreement. If it involves measuring, he double checks my numbers - without mentioning the curtains.