I packed up my entire art closet weeks ago. I haven't been able to put together any crafts since I piled the whole thing into boxes and stacked them in the garage. I was overjoyed to get a chance to go out with my girlfriends and paint at one of those studios that lets you copy stock paintings while you drink wine and socialize. I thought about choosing one of the local touristy demos, but this one with a chandelier and birds spoke to me. I ran it past the younger daughter, and she agreed it was the best of my choices. Several people in the group tried to suggest I should change the colors, but it was the teal and rose pink that caught my eye in the first place. I had no intention of changing.
At first I thought I had offended the young lady leading our group. She offered to do a chalk outline for me to follow from the original, and I said, oh, I can do that myself. She didn't talk to me a whole lot after that, and I thought perhaps she was mad that I didn't need so much hand holding. We talked more at the end, though, and she seemed quite friendly. I must have misread the signals.
I had a great time, but seriously, who sits on tiny, hard stools for two and a half hours without suffering? At first I was just popping up when my background needed to dry, and I needed to fill a cup with wine and a plate with fruit. Then I was getting up periodically to stretch. Finally I was jumping up every five minutes, trying not to cry or swear too loudly. I managed to finish my painting to a point that I'm proud of, to the point I actually can't wait to find a wall in the new house where I'll hang it, but by the time I reached my car in the parking garage, I was out of breath and moaning in pain. The drive home sucked. I think instead of Wine and Design, it's more time for Feet Up and Flexeril. I'm checking out early tonight. I've suffered enough for my art.
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