No way. At 15 years old, my friends had better things to do.
Such as driving behind the wheel with their freshly printed driver’s license permit. Now that was a good time.
Their idea of fun certainly wasn’t staring into the abyss of a sewing machine, listening to the helicopter noise it blurted out as my grandmother pushed down on her foot pedal, underneath her toes.
No ma’am. That was torture for my teenage friends. They’d rather watch paint dry.