3 years later
As I’m leaving work today, I’m feeling particularly bitchy. The buzz of the machines are deafening today. I can’t seem to get their silent screams out of my mind.
As I’m leaving the office at the end of the day, my heels clank clumsily towards the door. As I enter the lobby, one our techs is wheeling in the latest model. Its sleek new design catches my eye. Pausing to admire it, I notice the little built in stylus attached to the display, just as I had suggested only a few short years ago.
Guess the idea wasn’t so stupid after all.
Something about the sight of it, annoys the ever living fuck out of me. When I get home, the annoyance doesn’t leave. In fact, it’s only magnified by the pile of laundry on the sofa and the embarrassing amount of dishes in the sink. On top of that, I still have an hour’s worth of paperwork to do for work and dinner to make. The urge to cry springs to my eyes. The little round bastards begin to sting, begging me to give into it. But I resist.
I ain’t no weak ass bitch.
But I do feel weak. Defeated even. All of this…it’s never-ending. Work. Eat. Sleep. Mental meltdown. Repeat. Nothing in between. The urge to abandon every responsibility intensifies. I give into it. Microscopically at least.
You know what? Fuck dinner. Fuck laundry too.
I’m going to abandon it all, just for tonight. That’s gotta be ok, right? People have hobbies, don’t they?
I don’t have many hobbies, but I do have one I rather like.
Heading to the garage, I stumble over piles of junk and make my way to the paint supplies. There, I begin digging through our paint supplies. Gathering brushes, paints, antiques, and anything else I can find. I just need a small project, to get me out of my head for the evening.
The sight of all the colors brings a small smile to my face.
How pretty. A rainbow of potential.
Once back inside, with my arms overflowing with supplies, I settle myself on the living room floor to start painting.
It’s there, brush in hand, that my breathing begins to slow again, the racing of my heart seems to slow, and the tension in my shoulders seem to ease up. A few minutes later, the world around me melts away.
When Jose comes in the door 20 minutes later, I’m covered in paint and so is the floor. He looks less than pleased, his eyebrows so close, they might kiss. Leaving my brushes on the floor, I start to get up.
“What do you want for dinner?” I ask him expectantly.
“It’s okay,” he says. “I got it.”
“Thanks,” I say, my voice barely audible.
Relieved, I settle right back on the floor while he makes his way around the kitchen.
The next night, I paint again.. And the night after that too. Soon, painting becomes my nightly relief. My mini escape from everything that feels far too heavy. As a result, I soon start painting practically everything, like a rabid crafty raccoon. Picture frames. Candlesticks. Furniture. Decor. Doors. Cabinets. Floors. You name it; I probably painted it.
The stillness that painting brings me soon becomes something I crave. I find myself daydreaming about my next projects during the day. Surrounded by corporate chaos more often that not, I yearn for the peace that my little hobby gives me. That calm. It’s become my favorite PMDD coping mechanism lately, knocking vodka into third place, next to the beach.
It isn’t long, before my little hobby lands me in trouble, taking me down a dangerous path of irrational impulsivity.
