Ahhh, Patrones.  I remember the first time I saw you.  I couldn’t believe my eyes.  There you were, just hanging out against the wall at the magazine shop in the train station like it was no big deal.  I picked you up.  I looked you over.  I may have wiped a tiny dribble of drool of my chin.  I took you home with me that night. I had to have you all to myself.

It was lust at first sight.  More than a hundred designer patterns inside for a mere 9 euros, begging to be traced and stitched. You dazzled me with names like Lagerfeld, Gucci, Prada, Calvin Klein.  I was overwhelmed, swept off of my feet. I trolled every bookstore in town to find you, couldn’t wait until the next month in hopes of finding you tucked in the foreign language corner, new, and shiny and full of potential wardrobe candy.  I stalked you on ebay and German online sewing stores. Finally, I took the plunge, I made the commitment, I simply subscribed.

We had that fantastic six-month honeymoon period.  And then something happened.  Subtle at first, but a woman notices.  She feels the change coming even when she can’t put her finger on what it is. Little by little.  First a hundred patterns, then 60, then 35.  First Miu Miu, then Benetton, then H&M, then C&A, and eventually the labels stopped coming altogether, and it was merely “blue blouse” and “short jacket.” It was as though you no longer wanted to impress me.  And then I noticed others sneaking into our relationship… the kids’ patterns, the maternity clothes… suddenly they weren’t special issues anymore, but with us all the time, leaving so few pages, so few patterns just for the two of us.  And we eroded. I realized we’d been together for a year, and I hadn’t sewn a single pattern of yours. Neither of us had anything left for each other. And when I thought about it, I noticed what I should have noticed long ago– your patterns never really fit me all that well.  It’s funny the things we ignore when we are blinded by adoration.

One day you showed up in my mailbox, and I realized … I just didn’t care anymore. I felt nothing. You were just another expensive magazine from Spain.

And so, I guess this is it.  The end of the subscription, and I’m not going to fight it.  Maybe we’ll meet again in another train station in another part of the world.  Maybe we’ll have the occasional fling.  But I know now that we won’t be spending the rest of our lives together.  I’m sorry, but I think it’s for the best. We’ll always have our precious memories and back issues. I wish you well, Patrones. Goodbye.

– The Selfish Seamstress