Painting With A Twist.

I’ve written before (actually, so many times I probably sound like a broken record) about how much I’ve enjoyed my female friendships lately.  For so many years they took a backseat to other demands.  When I was married, the “we” always came first.  Pre-kids, the “we” was made of two; post-kids, the “we” became 3, then 4, then 5.  Making time for other friendships seemed like a luxury, and since The Ex didn’t really have any other friends (partially because he went to high school and college nowhere near here, and partially because he’s not much of a “people person”) any time I spent on my own nurturing other relationships or interests felt like selfish time.  It came with a hefty dose of guilt and a not-unsubstantial feeling of “I owe you,” so at some point I pretty much just stopped doing it.

These days, my noncustodial time grants me more “me” time than I’ve had in 15 years, and I’ve loved rediscovering and reemphasizing the importance of close girlfriends.  Tomorrow night I’ll be celebrating five high school friends’ 40th birthdays with a big bash sure to generate some post-worthy stories (or possibly some stories that will never, ever see the light of day).  Last week I spent an entirely lovely evening with some wonderful ladies, drinking wine and … painting.

 

 

It should be said that I am *not* an artist.  If you put a blank piece of paper and a pen in my hand and tell me to draw, I will always, always, always draw the same house (square, two windows, one door, chimney with some smoke on top), tree, clouds and flowers in grass that I have drawn since I was six years old.  I kid you not—I’m seriously that pathetic.  I cannot draw.  I cannot paint.  I cannot sketch, design, etch, draft, depict, or shade (why, thank you, thesaurus.com!).  Whatever part of the brain controls the visually artistic is not an area I am able to access.

So it was with some trepidation that I agreed to attend a local painting class during a Girls’ Night Out last week.  A local studio (Painting with a Twist) specializes in art instruction nights; they choose a painting for the evening, provide all the supplies, allow you to bring in food and drink (brilliant) and then walk you step-by-step through creating the featured work.  It was a blast.

It was also somewhat stressful at first.  Being Type A and doing something for which I have zero skill is not really my idea of a good time—there is absolutely no relaxation in it.

Me, thinking: "Establishing my suckiness is not a fun night out."

 

Me, thinking: "It's only 15 minutes in and I've already screwed up and have to dry the too-much-paint-on-my-canvas with a hairdryer."

 

Knowing their clientele (frazzled housewives, working mothers, suburban ladies trying to be superwomen and then some), the instructors solved this problem artfully (haHA! no?  ok, fine.  puns are never funny) and periodically rang a little bell to remind everyone to stop, take another sip of wine and remind ourselves that we were having fun.

Me (after a few bell dings), thinking: "At least there's wine."

And we really had a great time.  We painted and laughed and compared our own paintings with those we thought were better and those we thought were worse.  We complimented each other.  We made fun of ourselves. And we all went home with a lovely parting gift—a canvas that we have absolutely no idea what to do with.

The entire class of Wannabe Warhols.

 

Still, it was a fantastic night and was something completely different to do.  It was breaking out of the comfort zone, trying something new, and nourishing that part of ourselves that needs the company of other women.  I always thought that great girlfriends were hard to find, but maybe I just never looked in the right places.

This evening's version of the GNO Sanity Club.