The Conference

“Good Afternoon, how can I help you?” the man at the registration table asks as he looks up from the spreadsheet in front of him on the table. He has a bright welcoming smile and a name tag that says “Jim” attached to the pocket on his dress shirt. 

“Hi. I’m Bridget, Bridget Miller, and I am checking in for the conference. Am I in the right place?” she replies, looking left and right for a sign that assures her she has made it.

“Hi Bridget, I’m Jim and you are definitely in the right place. Welcome to the sixth annual yarn bombing conference!” Jim’s tone is bordering on sarcastic, though he is trying desperately to mask it, as his eyes return to the spreadsheet to locate her name. “Oh yes, here you are. All the way from Michigan! Wow, you came a long way to join us!” Just a slight touch of sarcasm as he takes in the woman standing before him who looks ridiculously out of place in the entrance to the hotel’s grand ballroom with its rich, dark mahogany wainscoting covering gold and white striped wallpaper. As he looks at her he suppresses a giggle as he contrasts her denim overalls, white v-neck t-shirt, brown doc martens with a red plaid flannel shirt tied around her waist  to the warm velvet magenta armchairs lining the hallway behind her. 

He uses a skinny yellow highlighter to mark her name on the paper and Bridget notices that she is one of the last to arrive; there are only a handful of other names not highlighted. Her plane had been delayed for takeoff from Detroit due to the fog in the Bay Area. And then when she arrived she had struggled to find the right place to go for a taxi. This was only the second time she had flown and her anxiety about it almost consumed her until she finally found the right place and climbed into a taxi that smelled like old pizza. She knew that Jim was probably critiquing her outfit and he should. It was as if she had been in a cocoon for twenty years and when she emerged the world had passed her by and she was trying desperately to catch-up, but always running behind. She knew she looked as if she had just walked out of the nineties ‘Nirvana’ grunge era. Being in San Francisco, a modern and cosmopolitan city full of fashionable and beautiful people makes her feel small and irrelevant. She had spent the last year working hard to undo the damage that years of emotional abuse had caused; trying to change, or at least learn to ignore, the voice in her head that told her she wasn’t good enough. 

“Thank you Jim. I am really excited to be here. I have never attended one of these conferences” Bridget replies while fumbling with the name tag on a lanyard in her hand. 

“Are you staying here at the hotel?” Jim asks.

“Yes, I am. I just checked in and left my luggage in the room. I can’t believe how beautiful this place is, and the view”.

“Really, oh, ok you must not travel much. It’s nice for an airport hotel. And definitely more affordable to host the conference than in the city itself” Jim replies and she can tell he is trying very hard to not sound arrogant. He is right, she has not traveled much and this hotel is definitely the nicest place she has ever stayed. She is embarrassed at the mistake she made and how ignorant she must sound.

Jim hands her a white folder stuffed with several pieces of paper. “Tonight is just the meet and greet. There are wine, beer and appetizers in the ballroom behind me. The agenda for the sessions tomorrow is on top. There is a light continental breakfast at 8:30 and then the welcome and keynote speaker is at 9:00. Sarah is the president of the Yarn Bombers Association International and an amazing and inspiring speaker. Also, if you wear your nametag when you eat at the hotel restaurant you save ten percent. Most people prefer to dine in the city, there are groups that Uber, so you should try to join up with one. Much better than the hotel restaurant, if you know what I mean. Let me know if you have any questions. Enjoy!”

Bridget had no idea what he meant about the hotel restaurant food and felt ridiculous because she knew Jim knew that and was urging her to explore. “Thank you Jim. So, I just go in there and mingle?”

“Yep, that’s what tonight is all about. Getting to know each other” Jim replies. 

“Ok, great” her voice cracks slightly and the butterflies in her stomach begin beating their wings faster.

You can’t do this, why did you come here? You don’t belong here, these people are real artists. You are such a fool, the voice in her head emerges again. She clutches the folder close to her chest and puts one foot in front of the other towards the double doors leading to the ballroom. When she gets to the door, her hand shakes as it meets the handle but the door swings out towards her, hitting her in the nose. “Shit!” she says as the door makes contact.

“Oh my God, I am so sorry. I had no idea it would open that fast. Are you ok?” a man about her age is standing in front of her, Bridget is sure her nose is bleeding.

“Dammit! Am I bleeding? I feel something on my face”. The folder that she was using as a barrier between her and other people has fallen to the ground; a habit she had not broken over the last  to hide her body. It’s absence makes her feel open, exposed and shy. 

“No, you’re not. But there is some clear liquid, maybe snot? No wait, tears, they are tears coming from your eyes. God, I am so clumsy, I am so sorry. Here come sit down and let me get a napkin. Maybe some ice. I can’t believe I just probably broke someone’s nose within twenty minutes of getting here” the man says, picking up the dropped folder and gently leading Bridget to a chair at an open table inside the grand ballroom. 

Bridget sits down slowly, placing her purse on the table. She covers her face with both hands to hide the tears running down her cheeks and the snot oozing from her nose. While the man goes to find ice she unwraps a napkin on the table and places the silverware to the side. She dabs her eyes with the napkin and finds that her new mascara has run. Wiping her nose, the initial sting begins to diminish, leaving her feeling as if she needs to crack her nose into realignment. 

The man returns to the table holding a white cloth napkin filled with ice and a glass of water. “There was an ice bucket on the table, so I just grabbed some and wrapped it up. I am so sorry, you should put this on your nose to try to prevent swelling. Do you think I broke it?” he says, handing her the napkin and pulling a chair near her. 

“No, I think it is fine. And please, stop apologizing. It was an accident, could have happened to anyone” Bridget finds her voice as she looks at the man for the first time. He appears to be in his late thirties with short wavy blonde hair that parts slightly off center. He is not tall, but not short, maybe five feet nine, though it is hard to tell when he is sitting down. He has bluish grey eyes and is wearing black framed glasses in a retro style that frame his face handsomely. Not supermodel attractive but also not ugly; what she would describe as ‘easy on the eyes’. He is focused on her intently and his facial expression conveys concern, though she can’t distinguish if the concern is for her wellbeing or that she may sue him. “I’m Bridget and you can take a deep breath, I am not going to sue you”. His facial expression doesn’t change, suggesting to Bridget that the look of concern on his face may actually be for her.

“Well Bridget, that is good to know but I am more concerned about your nose being broken and how painful that must be. And I’m Sean, nice to meet you, though I can’t believe I am meeting you by injuring you” he replies. “Can I get you anything else?”

“No, I am fine, thank you. I just arrived and this is my first time coming to something like this, so I was distracted. I should have been paying more attention” Bridget replies.

“Your first conference? Me too. I have no idea what I am doing here. I was actually just leaving, I hate these networking events. Walking around, trying to make small talk with strangers is the worst. I gave it fifteen minutes and decided that was enough torture for one day” Sean replies with a giggle that has the affect of instantly calming Bridget’s nerves. 

“Oh, me too. I am so out of my comfort zone here, I was dreading walking in. Maybe we could walk around together, sometimes it is easier with another person. I mean, if you don’t want to leave. I don’t mean to make you feel obligated or anything. Sorry, I don’t even know you, that was stupid, forget I said that please.”

“Now you need to stop apologizing. I think that is a great idea.” Sean replies. "You ready or do you need a minute?”

“I’m good,” she says. Together they stand up from the table and Bridget carefully rearranges her folder into one hand, swinging her small black purse back over her shoulder and across her body to allow her other hand to be free. They walk together towards the hosted bar that is set-up in the corner next to a long table adorned with what appear to be hot appetizers. As they approach the bar, Sean turns to Bridget and asks what she would like to drink. This startles Bridget, she is not used to any form of chivalry from men. After a moment of hesitation, she collects herself and orders a red wine. The bartender names off several types and Bridget, who knows nothing about wine, picks the first one she hears; a merlot.  Sean orders a beer from the bartender and they wait patiently in comfortable silence for their drinks. When he has the dark double IPA in his hand they turn back to the room which is populated around the edges with six foot tables and backdrops. Each table and backdrop form a booth of sorts with logoed table cloths covered with yarns, pictures of designs, crochet hooks or knitting needles as well as papers and chotchkies that the attendees can take with them. As Bridget and Sean start to walk through the room, she realizes that some of the tables are vendors introducing the newest tools or special yarns they have created, while others are yarn-bombing clubs and organizations sharing their projects and designs or recruiting new members. 

Bridget first learned about yarn bombing at her local arts center the previous year. It was about five months after she finally worked up the courage to leave and she was looking for a hobby that would help her find her self-worth. Her relationship with Andrew had always been emotionally abusive. Shortly after they were married she started gaining weight and he moved from ridiculing her about her shy personality to demeaning her about her weight. Her coping mechanism was to eat more which led to more abuse. She slowly stopped spending time with her friends because she was so ashamed of who she had become; a fat slob who felt inferior and empty. She spent her days sitting at her desk at home working remotely as a customer service agent for an insurance company; answering calls, taking information and starting claims to be passed on to the claims department for processing. She enjoyed the work and was great at disguising her hatred of herself with a long perfected friendly and calming voice. Because her relationships with her coworkers were virtual, she fooled them well. At their monthly virtual team meetings she laughed and joked and played the part of a content person, only to end the meeting and run to her bedroom to cry from the exhaustion of faking happiness. Andrew would return home from his job at the factory and his beratement of her started as he came through the door. Why wasn’t dinner ready? Or if it was, why were they eating this crap, she was just getting fatter. His insults were vial and vicious; telling her she was ugly and that no one except him was ever going to love her. But she knew that wasn’t love. They wanted children and when she struggled to get pregnant and suggested they both see a doctor to find out why, his response was that she was probably too fat to conceive. He never physically harmed her, but his evil words did significant damage and Bridget fell deeper into the hole of despair. 

“Wow, look at that design, it is so beautiful!” Sean says as he points to the design on the table they are passing. It is a street sign pole covering, made out of vibrant pastels. The knitted yarn pattern begins with a one foot block of yarn in lavender. It is woven upwards into the next one foot block of yarn in a soft canary yellow; the two colors knitted together to hide the transition. The pattern continues on until the eight foot pole covering is complete. “Many bombers use the bright primary colors, I have not seen this style much” Sean says almost breathlessly. 

“I’ve only completed about ten projects so far. There is a small bird feeder in the park near my apartment. My first project was a cover for the base to brighten it up. It’s not great, I made a ton of mistakes” Bridget says.

“Who cares about mistakes, you did it, right? That’s what matters. I am sure the people who go to the park aren’t getting down on their hands and knees with a microscope looking for missed stitches. They are enjoying how you brightened up a boring piece of stone. Good for you! How did you get started in this?” Sean replies.

His response brings a tear to her eyes. For her entire life male voices only expressed ridicule and contempt towards her. Starting with her father and brother and then Andrew when men spoke to her it was never to compliment her, only to dismiss her and make her feel defective. Each of them would have picked apart her project without even looking at it, insulting it and making sure she felt she wasn't good enough. It was their way of controlling her and for the first thirty plus years of her life it worked. She had been so proud of that first project. There was a group of older ladies at the art center who had taught her how to crochet after she stumbled in one Saturday morning in search of a hobby. She had lost almost fifty pounds at that point through good nutrition and daily walks, and she yearned for something to do with her hands in the evenings. Living alone was too quiet, though trading Andrew’s abuse for quiet was heavenly. But she was still slowly connecting with friends again and not ready for dating, so she needed something creative to occupy her time and her mind. She had learned about yarn bombing while searching for hours on the internet, but she did not know how to knit or crochet. A few Saturday mornings with the art center ladies and she had completed that first project. 

“I needed a hobby so I learned to knit. I was so ashamed of it that I waited until dark and snuck into the park to install it. I did not want anyone to know I made it. I live in a small town and I am sure the teasing never would have ended”. 

“Wow, you need to move. That sounds awful. Who would ridicule another human being for using their skills to make something beautiful to brighten up a park? That’s terrible” Sean replies as they continue walking between the booths.

“Yeah, well, it’s a really long story. But you’re right, maybe I do need to think about moving. I’ve been there my entire life so I never even thought about it that way.”

“Well, I would like to hear the long version, if you want to share of course, this weekend. Maybe over dinner or something?” Sean replies.

“You want to have dinner with me?” Bridget’s tone is one of surprise and disbelief. 

“Of course. I mean, unless you are here with someone. I’m sorry, that was way too forward. Forget I said anything” Sean says as his cheeks take on a crimson tone. 

“No, I am not here with anyone. It’s just that no one has ever asked to have dinner with me”.

“You can’t be serious? Well, if you would join me for dinner I would be very honored to be your first dinner date. But first, let’s finish checking out all these booths. I am looking for some fresh ideas for my next project. I will tell you all about it at dinner” Sean says as they head continue down the row of booths.