Page 13 of Sunny Side Up
six
As much as I hated retail dressing rooms, I loved going to the tailor. It helped remind me that I didn’t need to change my body to fit into my clothes; if something wasn’t fitting, I could change the clothes to fit me .
At the moment, I was looking in the mirror, admiring the tailor’s handiwork so far, and giving feedback on what else we needed to change.
“The hips need to go even higher, I think.” Technically, I was wearing one of the boring, sad, black swimsuits I’d bought online after the whole Bergdorf fiasco.
But Kateryna, my beloved, trusted tailor of nearly ten years, had completely transformed it. The suit was already unrecognizable.
She cocked her head to the side and nodded.
She had an alarming number of pins in her mouth, a sewing porcupine on her wrist, clamps attached to the bottom of her shirt, and scissors in her right hand.
A force to be reckoned with. She was about my size, and always impeccably dressed.
She made most of her own clothes by hand—a skill she’d learned from her mother, a first-generation Ukrainian American and fourth-generation seamstress.
The ones she didn’t make for herself from scratch, she tailored to perfection—as she did practically everything I owned.
I’d first met her on the subway. “You are so stylish,” she’d said, and I’d beamed.
Then she shook her head, frowning. “But your clothes don’t fit right.
I can help.” I burst out laughing. Honestly, she was right.
I’d spent half the subway ride repeatedly hiking up my pants, and when I’d left the house that morning, I’d realized my blazer was just a smidge too tight in the shoulders, which meant I’d have nutcracker arms all day.
I was struggling to hold the subway pole without ripping a seam while she spoke.
I didn’t think anyone else would notice, but once I got to know Kateryna, it was no surprise: She clocked everyone’s mismeasurements, everywhere she went.
It was something of an occupational hazard, she joked, except that since she found so many clients this way, the wait list to get an appointment at her shop was getting longer every day.
She could be Thom Browne’s personal tailor, she was that good, that fastidious.
Ever since I’d witnessed, firsthand, the magical effect that a great, collaborative tailor could have on my wardrobe—and my confidence—I’d been a devoted customer.
Easily one of my longest committed relationships in New York City.
We often tried to schedule my appointments toward the end of her workday so that we could go get a drink after and catch up, but we were so focused on the mission at hand that we’d decided instead to stay put and have drinks on the job. It was five o’clock, and she was the boss.
I took a sip of prosecco from a shallow glass. A customer had brought her two bottles as a thank-you present just that morning. I pointed to the spot on the swimsuit where I thought the thighs should be cut. “Right here, don’t you think?”
“Totally. Watch, I’m going to make a slit right here,” she said, as she made a confident snip, then cocked her head to the other side, “and look at that. Look how long your legs look.”
She safety-pinned the fabric where she’d made the slit so that a larger tear wouldn’t form before she could make a proper hem.
We worked in unison, pointing out the changes—often slight ones—that would have maximum impact. She marked all over the suit with her special chalk and took measurements while I wrote down notes and compared them to the inspiration photos I’d saved.
“You’re incredible,” I said to her. “People would pay a lot of money for this suit you’ve now completely remade.”
“You’re the one with the vision, my dear.
Some of this stuff you ask me to do…” She laughed and shook her head, a friendly poke at my go-big-or-go-home taste.
“I’d never even think of it. I can tell you when something is fitting poorly in the chest and how we need to fix it, yes, but I think you might be an actual swimsuit designer! ”
“Oh, please.” I rolled my eyes.
“Stand up straight,” Kateryna commanded.
I fixed my slouch while she worked some magic from behind that was lifting up my chest before my eyes.
“Okay, you’re all set. Take this off, mind the pins. I’ll text you when it’s done.”
She took out her phone and spoke with her eyes down, typing: “I’m sending you the names of a few fabric stores, just in case.
I know you aren’t crazy about the fabric this suit is made of.
If you want, I can make a pattern of this so we can make you more suits in colors or fabrics you like more.
A higher-quality textile will make the shape of this suit even better. ”
Kateryna handed me a robe and ducked out behind the curtain.
I stood there admiring her handiwork, envisioning the potential, even though the once-solid-black suit had practically become a cut-up scratch pad covered in yellow tailor’s chalk. We were genuinely onto something.
I think that was the first time I’d ever smiled in a dressing room.
I woke up the next morning to a buzzing phone. It was Brooke.
“I know it’s early”—Brooke sounded stressed; it was really loud in the background—“and this is so last minute. But Ezra was supposed to have the kids this weekend, and my parents left at, like, 4 a.m. this morning on a bus to Niagara Falls for Susan’s birthday party and I completely forgot that I said I’d meet a potential new client at his house in Greenwich Connecticut, this morning.
When he said ‘tomorrow,’ I thought he meant Friday, because I thought it was Thursday when we were talking, and my brain is just scrambled right now.
If I’m not actively looking at my kids’ school calendar, then—”
There was a crash in the background, and she whispered “Jesus Christ” under her breath.
I sat up and rubbed my eyes. “They can hang out with me for a bit, if they don’t mind running errands? I have a blowout, but I can give them my iPad to watch a movie, if you’re okay with that. I promise to turn off my iMessages so that they aren’t scarred by an unsolicited dick pic.”
“Sunny, seriously? You’d be okay with that?”
“Seriously,” I laughed. “I have a Hinge date tonight, that’s my only thing. I should leave around seven… I can also reschedule.”
“Another date? That’s amazing. Don’t reschedule it! I’ll be back well before then, promise. Also, can I just say that I’m so proud of you for putting yourself out there again? You’re inspiring me to keep after it, too. Anyway, I have my parents’ car. I’m driving them up to your place right now.”
“I think it’s faster if you take the FDR out of the city, no? Let me brush my teeth and I’ll meet you in Tribeca. I’ll take a cab, no way there’s traffic right now. See you in ten.”
“Sunny, I can’t thank you enough. How am I going to repay you for this one?”
“Brooke, your presence is my present. Bye. See you soon.”
An hour later, I was sitting at a diner in Tribeca, eating pancakes with Brooke’s three kids: an eight-year-old boy named Bennett, a seven-year-old girl named Hattie, and a five-year-old wild creature named Otis, who wore two different rain boots and whose hair appeared as though he’d rubbed a balloon over his head then sprayed the branches with Aqua Net.
They did all the talking. I drank three cups of black coffee, one for each of them.
We shared a side of home fries, talked about our secret superhero powers, and did every activity that required a crayon on our paper mats.
They were much better company than the mediocre dates I’d been on recently: very boring drinks with a very boring albeit kind man who had more sparks with the waitress than with me (I was this close to asking her out for him, no joke), and a weekday lunch at a place right by my office that was too convenient to pass up but ended up feeling like a business meeting given the time of day and the fast-casual spot he chose.
Should have seen that one coming, but I was trying so hard to be open.
I wasn’t worried. Yet. I definitely did not expect to meet my top contender on date number one.
I had a few promising new matches that I wanted to message later, and, thanks to the addictive nature of these apps, I somehow wasn’t sick of the swiping.
In fact, ever since it had occurred to me that beautiful-eyed mailman could possibly be on here, too—the whole world was, including two SNL cast members—I’d been swiping with the same feeling of hopeful possibility that I used to reserve for running into high school crushes at the mall.
“Do any of you want to be my date to my brother’s wedding?” I asked the kids. “There will be cake and dancing.”
They turned me down, no mercy, but they did show me some incredible dance moves.
I never wanted kids myself—something that had been a point of contention with Zack, who was still a child, so the thought of him having spawn was terrifying—but I was made for these kinds of situations.
I was born to be the fun aunt, the one who these kids would hopefully someday feel comfortable calling when they needed a pickup from a party but didn’t want to tell their mom.
In retrospect, it did add an extra level of chaos to the day: trying to shepherd three kids and two tiny dogs, all of whom kept stopping to sniff or touch something, onto an uptown subway, through two different fabric stores in the middle of Manhattan’s Garment District, and then back downtown.
By the time I got home and Brooke picked them up, I didn’t know if I’d ever been so tired in my life.
“You’re a saint,” she said. “I’ll owe you forever.”
“I actually think you are the saint,” I said. Three kids, every damn day, no breaks, for infinity. “Saint, hero, insane person, all of it. I worship you.”
I told her the kids were actually a major help picking out fabric, and they each got to bring home a swatch of their choosing.