At the tender age of 28 I learned how to sew, thanks to the impulse-purchase of a pale pink Singer 401A Slant-O-Matic sewing machine off Craigslist. It was the very picture of Eisenhower-era stolidity, boasting six cams and a buttonholer. Service it regularly, the former owner assured me, and it would work ‘til doomsday. I admit I didn’t quite know how to make use of such a doughty device, but I liked its looks. It stood on display in my living room, next to the futon, where I could admire its sturdy profile and clean lines. It added to my otherwise musty apartment a comforting aroma of machine oil.
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