“I’m going to sell the paint I created.”
“How are you going to do that?”
“I don’t know. I’ll figure it out, though.”
His skeptical glance doesn’t go unnoticed and I carefully avoid his gaze. Part of me is truly excited and I don’t want him talking me out of it. The next thing he says surprises the fuck out of me.
“Ok, I trust you. Do what you need to do.”
Is he serious?
I search his face for sincerity. Underneath his worried expression, I swear I catch a glimpse of it.
I spend the next several weeks figuring out all of the logistics. Without a mentor or anyone to lean on, I mostly use my instincts.
A few weeks later, the daily average sold, is only eight jars per day. Not exactly enough to pay a college fund, but I remind myself that this isn’t even supposed to be a full-time thing. Just something I’m dabbling in.
As I’m opening Facebook a few weeks later, there are quite a few messages in my inbox. To my dismay, sitting in my inbox is a customer complaint.
Swallowing a pound of air, I open the message. As I read it, I realize that I haven’t prepared myself for this part.
“This is the worst chalk paint I’ve ever used. I want my money back now.”
Wow, the worst? Really? That’s not even true.
An odd sensation comes over me and I realize she’s somehow hurt my feelings.
That’s ridiculous. She didn’t say you’re the worst person in the world. She just said that your paint is the worst.
I take a deep breath before messaging her. “I’m sorry you don’t like the product, but I would like to point out that it isn’t exactly chalk paint. Regardless, I’m refunding you.” Staring through tears at the screen, I hit send.
This isn’t the dream. They’re supposed to love it or at least like it enough to use it.
Just accept it. The product sucks. Deal with it.
Deciding that the customer is always right, I tuck my tail between my legs and decide to put my paint line ideas on the shelf after only a couple of months of trying.
As a result, I start to spend more and more time in our Crafty Bitches group. I find myself feeling so grateful for this room of humans. The acceptance and connection are unlike anything I’ve experienced.
Admittedly I’m drawn more so to some women more than others. After all, it’s human nature to pick our favorite humans. That’s quite literally what friendship is, anyway. It’s picking our favorite humans-like flowers in a meadow and then putting them in our non-literal pocket. As strange as it may seem to some, I love the friends I’ve made in our little group of crafty bitches. Especially my funny friend. She’s my favorite.
She has a way of making me laugh when laughing seems impossible. With her dry wit and semi-flippant attitude, she keeps me in stitches. Everyone needs someone to make them laugh when they feel like crying. I think most humans deserve that someone.
For many friends, I am that person, but I love having one of my own. I adore her warm online persona and her often-bubbly nature. She has a love for vintage and antiques like me, but we connect on deeper levels as well. She understands mental illness. She understands me. She isn’t afraid to tell me to get out of my head again and again. I like that.
Need that even. Sometimes I just need someone to tell me, child be still, just like my grandma did when I was a kid. Sometimes, that’s exactly what she says. I’m grateful for it.
It doesn’t surprise me one bit that Molly takes a liking to her, too. Over the last few months, the three of us have become close friends. Maybe a little too close.