As Molly shows me the ropes over the next few weeks, I'm astounded by how antiquated their process is. Maybe it's the ADHD, but it's borderline paralyzing to me. Not to mention all the extra steps it takes just to process a singular order. The inefficiency haunts me for weeks. Tortures me even. I have to say something.
Why are you afraid to say anything? That's weird. Molly isn't going to just turn on you. Just say it!
“Hey,” I say texting the group chat with me, Molly, and Katie in it. “Why do we do invoicing by email?” I ask, curiously - confused by the cruelty of the clunky and inefficiency of this method.
“It's the way all of the buy-in groups work,” Katie explains.
“Oh, I see,” I say, hesitating. “Well, what if we do things differently? More efficient. You know, set ourselves apart from the other groups that are starting to surface.” I suggest. Lately, there had been more buying groups like ours starting to surface where they sell craft related things. I didn't want us to blend in with them. I wanted us to stand out.
“So, what do you have in mind?” Molly asks curiously.
“Websites,” I answer simply. “I already have a website, but I can help you with yours.”
And I did. A week later, we each have our own website up and running.
Before long, my website is a small whimsical one-stop shop for many things, with a strong influence on musical gadgets and gismos, leggings, jewelry, crafts, and the sea. Somewhere along the way, Molly's side of the business begins to follow a similar curve as well, with her focus leaning mainly on apparel.
The transition to apparel makes complete sense for her. She's far more fashion savvy than I am and makes sure to remind of this me on the regular. The dig doesn't bother me. After all, I have a mirror. I know she's just being honest. And honest, is something I happen to really like. Plus, I've just never been one to care for handbags and accessories and such. With my mismatched leggings and my fuzzy socks, my sense of fashion is a lost cause.
Besides, I'd rather spend money on street tacos.
As the group grows in popularity, Molly suggests I start selling the paint I had made. I dismiss the idea at first, coming up with all the scenarios that could deprive me of joy instead.
They could hate it.
They could all request refunds.
They could run you over in a parking lot.
Okay, maybe the last one is a stretch.
“Your paint is big deal,” Molly insists. “You're a big deal. You just don't know it yet.”
I spend weeks gathering the courage, and then one day, as Molly's voice echos through my mind over and over again, giving me just the right amount of delusion to inspire me.
“Your paint is big deal. You're a big deal. You just don't know it yet.”
And on that note, I finally post my painted projects in the group.
“This paint dries in five minutes. Kind of like chalk paint, but with a lot more perks. And no fumes.”
And just like that, the comments start rolling in.
“Interested.”
“How much is it?”
“How many colors does it come in?”
A hundred comments later, my delusion solidifies.
Guess I'm going to sell my paint.
Little did I know, I just changed my life, forever. OR I guess, Molly did, since it was her idea.
