I’m confessing something to you right now in the hope that I may not be alone in this terrible, terrible disease.
I am haunted every time I open the freezer for some ice cream, seeing visions of months worth of freezer meals. My palms get sweaty whenever I am within a fifty-foot radius of a pallet. Suddenly, old mason jars and wooden doors are piling up in my basement. I don’t even know where they’ve come from.
My vocabulary has become become peppered with the phrase, “I can make that”.
Preceded by a direct break-down of the reality that I, indeed, cannot.
I cannot make my own bookcases out of old crates. I cannot make my own baby clothes out of my old tee-shirts. I don’t keep any old tee-shirts. I cannot plant an indoor garden using recycled soda bottles. We don’t even drink soda.
I cannot be the only one who is suffering from this overwhelming desire to make my own finger-paint followed by the ensuing panic of, “When will I do this? Why do I need to make my own finger paint? Why do I need finger-paint in the first place?!?!?!?!”
I will the first to self-diagnose. I have P.A.D.
Pinterest Anxiety Disorder, that is.
I am assaulted by images I love, overwhelmed by the enormity of such images, bowled over by the idea that I could possibly make those ideas a reality, followed by the quick decline into anxiety-twitching madness, knowing full well I will never make a stuffed owl pillow.
Who needs a stuffed owl pillow?
I’m fairly certain a recovery from such illness has not been scaled yet. It’s too fresh a wound, too new a sickness.
But if there was a twelve step program, I would be the first to sign up.
After I finish buying twenty-two pounds of flour and 20 bottles of baby oil to make moldable sand.
See what I mean?