Summer is just a season

Summer always reminds me of an epiphany I had during my first summer as a working woman-- Summer is just a season.

This was shocking to me at the time. My previous 16 years as a student had taught me that summer was a magical time-- 2 1/2 months of waking up late, bike rides around the neighborhood, trips to the beach, reading whatever I wanted and catching up on The Price is Right (I loved plinko). What do you mean most working people just get 2 weeks off per year? There should be laws against that sort of thing.

My daughter experienced her first shock along these lines this past week when she started summer camp at a local private middle school. "Where is the playground?" she asked in bewilderment upon our arrival. Sorry kid, once you're in 7th grade, the fun stops.

(Although I do think our society would be a lot better off if we could all spend some time hanging upside down from the monkey bars.)

My first real job after graduating from college was as a receptionist at an advertising agency in San Francisco. You see, I had graduated in the midst of a recession (sound familiar?), and entry-level professional jobs were virtually impossible to come by. I knew I wanted to work in advertising, but the assistant positions at large agencies were like gold in those days. Everyone wanted the privilege of making $16,000/year for working their asses off and getting coffee for cranky creatives.

After a number of interviews where I tried to distinguish myself from the 2 dozen other hard working, nice and competent applicants, I suddenly had the idea to try and make an end-run around the traditional process. When I saw that a local agency was hiring a receptionist, I decided to go for the job, always thinking that I would take any chance to get my foot in the door. Despite the fact that they openly said in the interview they had never moved a receptionist into an assistant's position, I didn't hide my ambition, and they hired me anyway. For a whopping $20,000/year-- which, coincidentally, when I was a child was the exact amount I thought I'd need to make as a grown-up to be set for the rest of my life. In my defense, I didn't know about private school tuitions and sellers' housing markets back then.

But I took advantage of the opportunity. I worked twice as long as the assistants did, and learned the workings of the agency inside and out. Any spare time I had, I volunteered to help and to learn. And I was rewarded 4 months later by moving into an open assistant's position. Still didn't stop everyone from asking me how to change the toner cartridge in the fax machine though.

When I look back on that time, I am struck by just how single-minded I was in my pursuit of the things I wanted. I never let anything or anyone distract me. Sure, it's harder now that I've been working for 17 years and I'm just so damn tired, but that person I was can teach a lot to the person I am now. Never give up. View obstacles as opportunities. Conan is right dammit! And I used to know it. My mid-year resolution is to remind myself once again of all the things I've already learned.

I wouldn't sneeze at 2 1/2 months of summer magic though.

Sorry Martha.

As you grow older, you realize that there are those things about yourself that you need to simply accept. No matter how difficult it may be.

For me, it's something that I have struggled with for most of my life, but only really came into play when I became a parent. It's something that is so shameful that I've never admitted it out loud, apart from hushed whispers to my husband when we could be sure that the children were fast asleep.

But I don't want to keep up the charade any longer. The time has come for me to come out of the closet. To say it out loud. Or to at least type it out loud. So here it goes.

*deep breath*

I am not crafty. Nor do I have any interest in becoming so.

*exhales*

"That's it?" you're thinking to yourself. "Nothing about recreational drug use, eating disorders, gender reassignments or unfortunate hat choices? What kind of secret is that? If I had paid to read this blog, I would want a refund."

But hear me out. Somehow in recent years (I blame Martha) not being crafty has become something to be ashamed of. Especially in the world of modern parenting where no birthday party or playdate can pass by without a dedicated "craft project."

But I'm putting a stop to the madness! I'm going to finally say it:

I don't like gluing things or painting things or creating mosaics with my son in the shape of a pirate ship. I hate making friendship bracelets, beaded necklaces or anything that requires me to tie knots that don't immediately unravel. I hate that my cabinets have been taken over by foam stickers and picture frames and pom-poms and other things that make my family room look like an annex of the Oriental Trading Company. I don't sew, so I have no interest in making hand-stitched decorative satchels with my daughter. I don't want to make my own fairy garden, decorate my own ceramic tea set or tshirt, or do anything involving Color Me Mine. And I certainly don't want to even get near things that require me to iron, knit, quilt, embroider, decoupage or decorate baked goods with anything than a standard layer of frosting.

I used to think my kids were missing out, but if the stacks of unused craft kits that are stacked up in their closets (ghosts of birthday presents past) are any indication, they are equally befuddled by this national desire to make things out of sticks and glue and tiny pieces of foam. And no matter how many family trips we take to Michaels, it's unlikely to ever change for them or for me.

Whew. What a relief to finally get that off my chest. Next step: admitting my true feelings about being "snack mom" during a given week. That won't be pretty.

*Note: the above blog post was written with tongue firmly in cheek. I don't feel in any way that my lack of craftiness reflects upon my self worth as a person. And I'm exaggerating about most of it. Except for the pirate ship mosaics. Those suck.