A Million in One

The vintage brown of the clay slithers past my hands, leaving a brown trail of residue. I press on the pedal with my foot, applying just a tad more pressure. The wheel spins around faster and I distort the clay with my nimble fingers. I pull it up; now resembling a wand (one that may stick out like a sore thumb if placed in a Harry Potter movie though) and push it back down with my palms. 

The trick is to keep steady and be gentle. I’ve been doing ceramics for a month now and I can already feel the boredom in the pit of my stomach, threatening to suck me down into its dark vortex. I’ve ever been one for consistency - my mind just seems to want to move on after mastering something. The vortex had further widened when I had realized that there were machines for ceramics. Heaven knows why I hadn’t figured that out sooner with the millions of ceramic plates and cups serving as conspicuous evidence in the dining room. 

I place my finger at the top of the spherical clay and allow it to bend inward, to my will. I round and smooth out the outside of the mug, then release my foot off of the pedal. I move the mug to the countertop to allow for drying time, then proceed to clean up. 

I can already feel that this will be the last time I sit on the ceramics stool. My dads’ ceramic work adorns the room - from tall vases to squat bowls. His studio lies at the far back of the house, where there is no heating or AC. This had proved to be a nuisance at first - but back then I was too fixated on my new hobby to pay much attention to the temperature. However, now the heat seems to work its way into my very cells and make its glowing orb quite comfortable in the pit of my stomach. 

Yes, I resolve to never set foot in this studio again. 

***

Swipe, swipe, swipe. 

“Social media can be so boring,” I mumble grumpily to my friend, Sasha. She nods in silent agreement, her eyes glued to her cell phone. I throw my phone back down on my patchwork quilt and sigh while placing my forearm on my forehead. My gum tastes stale in my mouth - the fruity bubblegum flavor dissipated into my saliva. 

Sasha suddenly lets out a cry of excitement, her eyes widening till they look like they’re on the verge of popping out.

“What?” I say, a little exasperated at her unexplained outburst. 

“You remember back in the kindergarten when we both did gymnastics?”

“Uh, yeah? I mean I only stuck with it for a couple months, but what about it?”

Sasha thrusts her phone practically into my face and I set my eyes upon the video she clicks on. 

After a few seconds tick by, “Wow,” is all I can manage to breathe out.

The video was of a girl bending her body into all kinds of shapes and positions, a ribbon flying in her wake. Her pointed toes reminded me of ballerinas with their perfect bodies and flawless forms. Before I say anything more to Sasha, I furrow my eyebrows, silently making a vow to myself. You will stick with this if you start, I repeat to myself over and over. 

“Sasha, we have to do it,” I say earnestly.

“Yeah, I’m looking for gymnastic classes near Berry Meadows.”

I flop back down, thinking that this might not be such a bad summer after all.

***

I watch, enthralled, as girls seem to fly all over the gym, straight legs supporting pointed toes and outstretched arms flashing in past my peripheral vision. My legs are opened in an attempted split, still about five inches from the ground. 

Sasha is beside me, bent back into a bridge. Her face is contorted into a grimace - no doubt her back is sore from yesterdays’ practice. If I'm being bitterly honest with myself - however much in awe I am of the rhythmic gymnasts around me, I don’t believe for a fleeting second that Sasha and I could ever be that good. 

This lack of belief is causing me to spend more time watching the gymnasts on social media and in the gym - rather than stretching to get to their level. I feel fed up with myself and Sasha - why had we cajoled ourselves into doing something that we knew we would never get to?

“Everyone take five,” our Coach says, blowing the silver whistle resting on her chest that pulls me out of my reverie. I walk over to my gym bag and pull out my phone. I ring up my mum and ask her to pick me up, using the ‘tummy ache’ card. She swerves into the gym’s parking lot not ten minutes later.

I wave goodbye to Sasha and climb in, knowing that this will be my last time at the gym.

***

I stare at the girl suspended in mid-air, legs open in a perfect line, arms spread elegantly like an eagles’ wings. However, this time, it’s not a girl at the gym, nor is it one on social media. 

This time it’s my own creation, formulated in my imagination and brought to life with the paintbrush I firmly hold in my right hand. Who would have thought that I had a natural talent for painting? The repeating motion of paintbrush strokes calm enough to lull a baby to sleep and easy enough to allow my mind to wander freely - it’s perfect. 

I figured that I could enjoy every kind of hobby with painting. I immerse myself into the image I create, feeling almost as if I'm there but not long enough to get bored. I’ve already experienced the beauties of equestrian and the perfectionism of bullet journaling. It’s a third eye, allowing me to get a taste of everything from the comfort of my own home. 

Painting is like a million hobbies mixed into one. I don’t think I will get bored of painting anytime soon.