I am so wise.
So grown.
I have everything figured out and I exude happiness and bliss.
Of course, it’s easy to feel this way on days when the sun is shining and the man I love brings out the best in me and my friends like me just the way I am.
But four days ago I loudly rolled my eyes at a woman who passed me in exceptionally loud shoes after gaining on me for two blocks at a pace approximately one eighth of a step faster than mine. I stepped out of her way in an exaggerated fashion that, if it could talk, would have said a la Carrie Bradshaw “Oh you’re SO busy!”
So yeah, there are still up and downs in this paradise of contentment and maturity.
What is encouraging to notice is that after the sidewalk sass, I quietly said to myself, “So it looks like I can’t deal with people this evening” and swiftly went home to (1) feed myself a real dinner, (2) clean up the kitchen promptly like an adult, and (3) put myself to bed hella early with the knowledge that I was going to feel better after a good sleep.
The next morning I listened to a podcast where a woman who makes digital art described her work and how it forged a community. As I poured my coffee and laid out my clothes, I caught a glimpse of the me that followed another path and lives in a cheap room with lots of space in a city where no one would ever describe their hunt for an apartment thusly: there’s not a lot of product out there right now. Product.
This other Andrea painted the floor white with the remnants from another project. 7 desks that don’t look anything like one another are spaced around the room and there’s a different idea in progress on each one.
One is covered entirely in cut-outs of illustrated women from condensed Reader’s Digest books. Another has pieces of vintage kimonos that will variably be framed, made into silk blouses, or used to belt other kimonos.
The third desk has a piece of drift wood with thick macrame thread tied into 5 kinds of knots. On the fourth resides a rescued piece of mustard gold velvet and a sketch for a footstool.
Number five has a stack of different grits of sandpaper and a teak pepper grinder partly disassembled. A laptop is on the sixth desk where she types up all her favourite metaphors as they come to mind.
And on the seventh desk are smooth, lovingly polished pieces of wood cut into the shape of fish scales and half moons and painted white. They are suspended from thin pieces of wire and every so often, the artist studies their shadows and adjusts the angles at which they hang in relation to one another. The mobile is a gift for a most beloved friend.
On the roof of the building is a workshop filled with wood working tools that the artist is slowly learning the names of. The love of her life is often up there, making his own art. Otherwise he’s in a dark room just on the other side of a happy kitchen connecting the dark room to the room with 7 desks.
Every now and again, the artist and I step into the same time and space. We share all the same projects, but she doesn’t own black pleated pants and a stack of blazers that get tried on once a week and taken off again minutes later.
She listens to Frazey Ford or Ludovico Einaudi or Taylor Swift as the mood strikes her. Same as me. Every so often, her partner, who is my partner, brings a cup of tea. Or she wanders to where he is just to find out what he is doing.
And she’s just as happy as I am.
P.s. Most beloved friend – just a quick head’s up that the project on the seventh desk still resides only in my mind, so your wedding gift is still en retard. Maybe it will end up being a mobile for the baby’s crib?
Girl Fight 