I don’t ask for much. I live a humble, virtuous life, as any Kenyon student should. I don’t put silverware on the dirty-dish conveyer belt, and I replenish my roommates’ Synder’s of Hanover brand Honey Mustard and Onion Pretzel Pieces supply after routine fits of rage-fueled snacking. I am a woman of god. But, in spite of it all, I was the sole person to sign up for the craft center’s fabric painting class, so it got cancelled.
It happened so fast. Sandwiched between 18 emails from Donna Maloney and 7 from Pamela Sheasby, Kim Blank’s name stood out. Her message’s subject line was unsuspecting. It read, Craft Center Class. I clicked to open the email. “Alright!” I thought as the page loaded, “An update from what is to be the highlight of second semester, and/or the only source of light remaining in my life: an upcoming fabric painting class at the craft center.” It was an update, like I’d suspected, but there was no satisfaction in my rightness. The feeling could only be compared to the lack of satisfaction one feels when, yes, they had thought right… their new mole isn’t benign after all. Sometimes, there is no satisfaction in the correct.
The email read,
Unfortunately you were the only person to register for the Fabric Painting class, so we have to cancel it for this semester. I’m sorry to disappoint!
I slammed my computer screen shut. Beads of sweat wrenched open my pores with damp hands, and shimmied onto my furrowed brow.
“No,” I muttered, “It—it can’t be.” And then, again, this time yelling, “It can’t be!”
But it was, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. How could I be the only one? What did I do wrong? When did art die?
That night, my roommates came home, and once again, all of the Honey Mustard and Onion Pretzel Pieces were gone, but this time they let it lie.
6 days later, I’ve yet to shower. My hair is matted into 3 distinct rat’s nests. I am starving. I am tired. I may never learn how to paint fabric.