This weekend I was at my parent's house, helping my mother decorate the nursery and toddler room at my father's church. I'm hesitant to say it, but...oh this hurts...I...I liked the crafting. I liked the painting and lining up of big fabric flowers on the wall and painting flower stems under them (even if my stems were wierd and lumpy and possibly genetically erred) and Heaven help me, I liked using a glue gun. A GLUE GUN. I can hardly sew a button on to a pair of pants and I enjoyed using a GLUE. GUN.
I can't even wrap my head around it. I'm not a crafty person. I'm not an artistic person, or musical. There's a very real and tangible reason why I stick to the written word. If I tried another medium I would probably wind up explaining it to a fire marshal or paramedic. But I think I could do a little crafting. I could glue a magnet on to the back of random household objects and before long, BAM. You too can have a wooden spatula, 4 salt shakers, and the top to an empty box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch stuck to your refrigerator, holding up emails from professors you haven't talked to in 6 years and recipes for cornbread-based taco bakes.
It's 9:06 on a Monday. I'm sitting here, blogging about glue guns and tacos, watching the Hallmark Channel (?!), and sewing a hem on a pair of work pants. This is it. It's finally happened.
I'm 27 going on 93.
Yes, yes, Wilford. We can go to Denny's for the Early Bird Special. Just let me get my orthopedic shoes and we can race our Hover Rounds around the parking lot.
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