Kathy & I like to go to art classes every once in a while. It’s nice to do something creative, especially with your hands. We went to an art journaling class last spring or fall (honestly, sometimes time blurs for me), which promised to be a lot of fun. The teacher had all of the materials we needed and she gave us prompts for the pages we created. There were about four women who knew each other and a couple of women who came alone and then there was me and Kathy. We are always so excited to get messy and create and spend time chatting; unfortunately, we show up and everyone is looking a little dour. We enthusiastically say “hi” to everyone and introduce ourselves to the teacher and then proceed to sit down. I suppose we were chatting to ourselves and then trying to connect with our neighboring classmates, but let’s talk about talking to a brick wall or a rock. The gal next to me had a very stoney personality and the woman next to Kathy wasn’t really having it. Whatever, we aren’t fazed. This is supposed to be a fun class even if the women here are really very serious, especially the woman next to me. She hoarded the materials she wanted and then proceeded to bend over her project and work on it, without a word–very reminiscent of the classmate who uses her entire arm and torso to cover her paper so no one will “cheat” off of her. It’s as if the rest of us didn’t exist. It was actually pretty remarkable how little contact she made with the rest of the class.
The other ladies were serious but in a different manner. They wanted what they wanted when they wanted it and seemed to pitch a little hissy fit if their materials weren’t available or if they were unable to accomplish the technique they desired. Up and down, searching for their “perfect” ephemera and bumping the already shakey card tables. It was no problem when they did it. There was no apology or even acknowledgement that they could be disrupting others. However, when I stood up and reached across the table to get a different pen and accidentally bumped the table when I sat back down you would think I committed a very horrible crime. No joke. I felt very bad and immediately apologized, but the woman across from me held me in an icy glare for a long time (a throw down kind of glare–intense). This is very same woman who kept bumping the table earlier but didn’t seem to realize it. Finally, I could take her insolence no more and I very firmly & slowly repeated, “I’m sorry!” and continued to look at her until she looked down. I know, I could’ve and should’ve risen above it but I didn’t. I was really tired of the pissy kitty club and the “rules apply to you but not to me” parade. Kathy and I came to class like a couple of labs who’ve just been told their going on a car ride–very excited and super friendly to anyone who crossed our paths. For the non-dog readers, Labs, in general, are the meeters and the greeters of the dog world–happy, happy creatures who run all about and investigate in a good-natured sort of way. This lady was like a cat walking up to a dog (a good natured one or one used to cats), that swats the dog for no real good reason and then looks at the dog with the attitude of “whatch you gonna do ’bout it?” Pissy. Kitty. The kind of cat who’s always getting the squirt bottle by its person because it does whatever it wants, just because.
Here’s the thing, we are talking art journaling class–this isn’t some art masterpiece course, it isn’t even a course! It was a simple, fun workshop to explore one’s creative side. That’s all folks. Hate to burst your bubble. It’s as if this lady was shopping at Kmart, expecting to find something on the level of Saks. Ain’t happening, so you probably should work with what you have and relax! Have some fun, for crying out loud. Life is a little too short to have a throw-down with me about bumping a table. My table bump was so subtle that Kathy, who was sitting next to me, didn’t even notice. She couldn’t figure out what was going on. To be honest, neither could I.
We left with some journal pages that we were pleased with and some that we weren’t, but we were o.k. with that. When class was over, we thanked the teacher and left, while the other ladies were still whining that they didn’t finish or they weren’t happy with x or y. Crazy labs gleefully left the building while pissy kitties stayed behind, perhaps looking for approval from the teacher. Who knows. Next time, I promise I won’t bite the bait.