I graduated a year ago in May. It still surprises me when I remember that I won't go back as a student in the fall. Everyone always said to treasure my time in school, that I would miss it when it was gone, and while I did my best (most of the time) to remember that advice, I’m still waiting for the day I wish to go back.  While I still wouldn’t go back, the patterns of my life haven’t changed drastically.  I’m still chasing deadlines and juggling one too many projects. 

I sat perched on the edge of my bed last night going through my weekly calendar, cause I’m a nerd that way. When I got up to get some chapstick, cause I’m a nerd that way too, something caught the corner of my eye, something bright orange on my white sheets, on my white bed. Paint. Oil Paint. I found the culprit on the side of my foot, which luckily kept it from being tracked through the rest of my bedroom. There’s still paint on my sheets and under my fingernails, and on several of my shirts. My room is a scary disaster, my laundry undone, and my projects unorganized. But there’s paint on my hands. 

I’ve set aside some time in July for a new project, which really means I am giving myself a ridiculous deadline even though I don’t actually have time. Thirty pieces in thirty days.  And I am behind already.

But there’s paint on my hands.