A woman is supposed to remain composed. Never sniffling too loud, moving a finger too quickly, never a hair out of place. That’s how we’re supposed to be.
From the moment I was born, I’ve detested the idea that I am bound to conformity. Tulle irritated my skin, makeup felt heavy on my face, and perfume was suffocating. I resent the idea that I am made simply for a man: for his pleasures, desires, and commands. So when my father told me I was to attend a sewing circle once a month for the foreseeable future, I all but died in front of him. What was I going to do in a sewing circle? I’d never picked up a needle in my life- and I knew nothing about the complex universe of buttons.
On the day of my first meeting, a gloomy Thursday morning, I picked up my umbrella with resignation. My father insisted I looked presentable, even though a rainy morning for me usually constituted a wild nest of damp hair and muddy shoes. As we approached the impressive manor, I pouted contemptuously. I had absolutely no desire to enter the house, but despite my objections, I was soon at the door. “I’m going to leave you here,” my father droned, placing a light hand on my shoulder. “I’ll see you for dinner- behave yourself.”
As he departed, I rapped my knuckles on the polished oak. After waiting for nearly a minute, I became impatient. Who did these women think they were? They can’t be nearly as busy as they seem to be.
When the door finally opened, a sharp-featured woman was standing in front of me. Her eyes were beady and her hair pulled tightly back. Her head was held just as high as my own. Amazingly, I noticed she was wearing trousers. I must have looked a fool, because she hastily grabbed my arm and practically herded me through the door. The group of women inside looked the same: serious, determined. And all in trousers.
“Let’s get to work,” the first woman said. Before I could stop myself, I heard my own voice: “Doing what?” All heads snapped in my direction. The mystifying woman turned back to me, eyes storming.
“Saving women who can’t save themselves.”
I was puzzled. Saving women? What could she mean? Women weren’t exactly treated well in our world, but we weren’t exactly in hell either.
“Saving?” It must have been clear that I was confused, because the sharp-faced woman let out a sigh. “What do you think we’re doing here? Sewing?” She laughed, but somehow her face never lost its intensity. The rest of the women laughed too, but no smile escaped my lips. The chuckling died down when they noticed my lack of enthusiasm.
The woman suddenly stopped laughing. “You do know we’re not here to sew… right?”
I remained silent.
All amusement dropped from her face. “Oh dear. I assumed you knew what you were getting yourself into.” She walked across the room, to a worn oak dresser. It was carved and chipped, and had long ago lost its shine. She yanked on a drawer until it sprung open with a horrible scraping sound. She reached inside, her calloused, strong hands pulling on a piece of dark, billowy fabric. She again crossed the room, this time over to me.
“Let me explain.” She looked around the room, eyes glistening with pride. “These women have chosen to volunteer their time, working together to help other women stuck in concerning marriages. It’s not that the women themselves we’re ‘saving’ are in real, imminent danger: but their minds are. Their potential to grow into someone is expiring. Withering away in real time.” She placed a vest and matching trousers in my hands, and wandered over to a loveseat. It was occupied by two other women, but they hastily made room for her to sit.
“These women have opportunities to grow into someone. Someone with goals, passions, and aspirations. And we have decided to jumpstart that process.” She took the hands of the two women beside her. I felt my heart jump in my chest. Their connection was obvious, eyes filled to the brim with emotion. Their hands grasped tight together. She returned her gaze to me.
“I know this wasn’t what you were expecting, but as women we have to fight for each other. We would never turn away a willing member.”
I looked down at my glossy heels, feeling more hideous than ever before. I felt my cheeks burn as I looked the mysterious woman in the eyes.
