I don’t know what distinguishes a ‘crafty’ person from a non-crafty person – other than the obvious ability to make a craft. Is it patience, vision, finger dexterity, a mysterious as yet undiscovered craft-gene? All I know is I am on the non-crafty side. Or, more accurately, the crafty-wannabe side. Rather than the bonafide crafty side. I’m not in possession of patience, vision, finger dexterity or any kind of crafty DNA.
This was apparent to me on Thursday. I arrived at a weekly gathering of women, only to be informed that we were going to make a craft. Ordinarily, the thought of making crafts in group settings sets off a series of deep inward (slightly audible) groans on my part. I mean, if given the choice between making a tacky craft and not. I’ll choose ‘not’ every time. If given the choice between an exercise in frustration and ‘not’, I’ll choose not.
But, to my surprise, the finished product that our craft leader hoisted above her head, actually looked appealing. A little wreath for the front door. [Truth be told, when she first displayed the beady ring, I momentarily thought it was a fancy crown. And there was going to be a ceremony in which a very special woman got to wear the crown…or something. I was quickly disabused of that idea.]
Nevertheless, I got a little excited at the thought of displaying a handmade-by-me beady wreath on the front door.
We were each provided with a golden metal ring, a sufficient amount of plastic berry trees, floral tape and ribbon. And off we went.
My initial excitement faded very quickly; roughly ten seconds into the wreath making. I couldn’t quite figure out how to wrap the beads ‘just so’ or how to keep the white floral tape from sticking out like sore thumbs on the golden ring. And, speaking of sore thumbs, I’d also managed to puncture both of my thumbs within minutes and was bleeding all over the white table cloth. ‘This is the craft from hell!’ I remarked. The three women around my table, unfamiliar with Nicola humor, looked up and smiled thin smiles.
I looked around the table at said women working diligently on their own wreaths. Their wreaths looked good. Quite good. No one had bleeding appendages or scarlet dots on their portion of the white tablecloth. It’s almost as if it was ‘within’ them…a mysterious knowledge of how to place beady wires around a metal ring, and have the finished product look good.
One of the women at my table, who finished her wreath in about ten minutes flat, tried to give me advice. ‘The beads should all go in the same direction.’ ‘Don’t use so much tape.’ ‘Don’t wrap the ends around it too much.’ She eventually gave up when it became apparent that no amount of coaching was going to land my wreath on Martha Stewart Living’s website.
In the end I opted to wrap the whole thing in ribbon, figuring it would serve two purposes: mask the gold ring, which I didn’t like, and cover up the white tape that was visible to the naked eye from two hundred yards away. (It wasn’t until yesterday that I noticed the ribbon is stained with the blood of my hard work. Not attractive.)
As my blunt coach remarked: ‘It looks almost presentable enough for a front door.’
But not quite. Which is why it’s hanging on a wall in the house.