Yesterday marked another important milestone in my slow journey back to life: I made a trip to a large craft store for the first time in recent memory. It was pretty great.
My husband and I had decided to break up the normal tedium with a date day, our version of which entailed a streetcar ride (success!), the purchase of twelve skeins of embroidery floss, a few rounds of midafternoon Boggle, a couple hours apart because we both need our downtime, salted-lemon KitKat bars, a very slightly different dinner than usual, and a romcom. In other words, the epitome of dream date.
Much as I love beating my husband at Boggle and delicious as the KitKats were—we also got the melon flavour—wheeling myself to the embroidery floss and carefully choosing the colours I needed for my next project was by far the highlight for me. There’s something magical about the beauty of rows upon rows of thread just ripe for the picking. I’d forgotten what a simple pleasure craft stores are. Managing to only buy what was on my list was pretty satisfying, too.
I had a weird revelation, if you can call it that, while sitting on the balcony post-outing, pre-Boggle. Namely, it’s kind of nice that stuff that a few months ago was really, really exciting is now a little … boring? Not boring, I guess, but mundane. In a good way. It’s a privilege to be in a position where not everything is a novelty. Not everything requires tons of planning and effort. Not everything is an event. I can admire embroidery floss, eat imported KitKat bars, and dissect the dubious plotline of a romantic comedy. I can regret not having bought more craft supplies but rest easy knowing that I can, and will, go back for more in the near future.
De Morbo Sacro: Life and/with Epilepsy 