Well, I made time for that a few weeks ago. My friend MH
posted a thing on Facebook about an adult coloring workshop. For $10, you could
go to an art studio and have some snacks and maybe a glass of wine and just
color, not like Paw Patrol or Barbie pictures, but real designs with lots of
little spaces for color to go. I looked at her post and thought, hmmm, that
might be fun, especially with MH. I asked her if she was going to go, and she
said she wasn’t sure, and she asked me if I was going to go. It turned into one
of those I’ll go if you’ll go scenarios. We had a date.
I told my sister about our upcoming plans, just in casual
conversation, and she was like, you need a workshop to color? She had a point.
I pretty much mastered coloring about forty-one years ago. I even worked on my
technique a bit when my girls were little. I pointed out it was at an art
studio for a fee, so they had to call it something. Workshop was just as good a
name as any.
The night arrived, and MH and I rode together downtown and
grabbed a quick bite to eat. I had stashed a bottle of wine in my car, since
coloring when you are an adult means you get to drink. We drove around trying
to find the art studio, which was in an old house in a sketchy part of town. I
overthought the part where I hoped my car wouldn’t be stolen or burglarized,
and then I thought about how much I needed to color. Like an adult. We decided
to leave the wine in the car. The whole thing sort of begged for sobriety.
I don’t know if you follow the news much, but there have
been a few studies recently about the benefits of coloring. According to some
researchers, you get the same effects from coloring as you would from
meditating. It’s all the rage now. You can find a whole variety of intricately
patterned coloring books at Barnes and Noble or online from Amazon. Hell, I even
saw a weird little Reader’s Digest version of an adult coloring book in the
grocery store checkout line today, which is how you know it’s time to stop.
MH and I went inside and were pleasantly surprised to see it
was a real art studio with real art on the walls and the smell of paint heavy
in the air. We found our way downstairs to a room with folding chairs and
tables on which boxes of markers, crayons, and colored pencils were arranged.
On another table against the wall were stacks of coloring sheets like you would
see in a preschool class, only instead of sheep and apples and shit, they had
skull designs on them. Seventies music played softly in the background. At one
of the tables, two women were coloring intently while carrying on a very loud
conversation. One of the women had brought her own coloring set, a very
professional assortment of crayons and pencils and pastels. She took her
coloring very seriously.
We signed in and were greeted by the hostess/artist in
residence. She looked artsy, with her skull t-shirt and messy grey bun and very
friendly smile. We settled in at the other end of the table away from the loud
talkers. We felt awkward, unsure if we should sit near them but not really
wanting to but then feeling bad like they would think we didn’t want to sit
near them. We didn’t verbalize this, but rather communicated it through a
series of facial expressions and eye contact.
We got down to coloring business. A few more women showed up
and filled in the empty seats around the table. I noted that there were no men
present. Men would never attend a coloring workshop, at least not any of the
men I know, and if they did, they certainly wouldn’t admit it. Hey men, you
should, because the whole place is crawling with the ladies. Except they were
all pretty much bat shit crazy.
How do I know this? Well, as the wine poured and the crayons
scribbled, the other women began to play an elaborate game of top that. You
know how someone will tell you about a bad day and then someone else tells how
their day was worse? That’s how the game is played. It’s not an official game, it’s more of a
subtle dance of human nature tweaked with a smattering of ego, or, if you are
the winner, grandiose narcissism.
These women took the game very seriously. One of them told how she had just traveled to China, so another one had to explain she lived in Nepal and lived off yak milk or something. That one also turned out to be a nude model, which was another detail we didn’t need to know. Another one commented on her failed marriage, which prompted someone else to tell us about her brother’s suicide. MH and I began to color faster.
More wine was sipped, and then the woman with the
professional coloring kit looked at me and realized she knew me. We are both
members of the Chosen people, so apparently, we really do all know each other.
She started asking me all these questions about my temple, screaming them at me
from across the room. It went on long enough for the rest of the tragedy parade
to stop and observe this tangent. MH kept her head down and colored furiously,
wearing down all the points on the new crayons.
“This isn’t very relaxing,” I said to her. “I think this
might be harder than meditating.”
“I know,” she said. “I have to get this right. This is
really triggering my OCD.”
I stopped trying to make it look good and just started
filling in all the white space. The hostess walked in the room carrying a bowl
of snack mix.
“Here, eat up, ladies. I would but I’m gluten free,” she
said to the room.
“Of course you are,” I whispered to MH.“I had a waffle two months ago and I still have a rash,” she overshared, and then she pulled up her shirt so we could all stare at the angry boils on her trunk.
I finished my skull, sat back, and quietly said to MH, who
was still hard at work,” Done. Should I start another one?”
MH normally has a sweet little southern voice that is
reminiscent of hummingbirds sipping at fragrant honeysuckle. She answered,
“NO!” with Satan’s own larynx.
The rashy gluten-free hostess drew names from a bowl for
some door prizes. I won a skull ornament. I was hoping to win the jar of little
clay teeth that sat on a shelf, but that was actually for sale. MH decided she
would finish hers at home. She gathered up her jacket and purse, announced she
needed to get home to her children for bedtime and whatnot, and we skedaddled
out of there.
On the car ride home, we sat quietly for about five minutes. Then MH said,” What the fuck was that?”
“Oh good, I thought it was just me,” I laughed. “Next time you feel like coloring, just bring your coloring book over to my house for a play date. I’ll have some gluten-free snacks for you.”
“There won’t be a next time,” she said. “Coloring is too much pressure. All those lines and spaces that need to be filled up. Too much pressure. That wasn’t relaxing and peaceful at all.”
“At least we weren’t the crazy ones,” I pointed out.
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