Yesterday and the day before, I spent a lot of time at the bead shop, twisting tiny wires and stringing bitty beads and nearly putting my eye out with the wire cutter, because it’s never too early to be in the pursuit of holiday presents, making a holly, and a jolly, and a merry merry.
Except my hands were sweaty and I had started to go blind in one eye and blood was slowly trickling out an ear and it occurred to me, as the piece of jewelry I was laboring over so sweatily and laboriously sprung violently out of my hand and exploded in the air, showering the store’s work table with shards of hate and severing the many important major arteries of many of the store’s customers, that maybe I need a hobby that doesn’t fill me with rage.
I am not even really sure why the fuck I suddenly and without warning
took up earring making in the first place, and why I ever even
considered the possibility of setting foot inside a store called
Beadissimo. But suddenly I was there three times in one week. I took a
class. I paid someone to show me how to wire wrap. I returned and with great consideration purchased beads and spent three hours sitting at a table,
arduously constructing disappointingly Spartan-looking earrings that
are just a couple steps up from, like, macaronies on a string. With
For three hours, I sweated and made frustrated, howly rage noises, and
then they shooed us out of the store because it was closing. I shut
down a bead store, man. I am hard core. And then I got out of work
early the next afternoon, and I made a beeline back to the place. Or
should that be bead line? No. No, it shouldn’t. Sorry.
It is intensely and deeply dorky and twee, this bead thing. It’s like
half a hop away from bedazzling, only way fucking more expensive. But
despite the rage and the heart pounding and the way I am not a super
genius with my handsâ€”which are comprised of four thumbs and another
thumbâ€”doing that wrapping stuff, and the stringing and the bending
and the twisting, it takes a lot of concentration. It forces an immense
amount of focus, of zeroing in and narrowing down.
I cup beads in my palm and hunch over the table, turning them over and
sliding them along the bend of a wire, and it is a strange sort of
break from the inside of my head. Nothing at all depends on the
assembly of an earring, and rage is aerobic.