Many, many, many years ago, in an attempt to get over an ex-boyfriend, I took a continuing education polymer clay class. We learned to make Christmas ornaments.
So that year, I made a million Christmas ornaments. And the year after that, I made them and sold them to people my parents worked with.
(Hey, it was early in my career and I was poor. And bored.)
It was fun. I was pretty good at it. It proved to be a nice distraction.
I was retelling the story to a coworker in December, and she asked to see them. So I took photos of a few of my ornaments and showed them to her.
She was so impressed with my creativity and skill that she exclaimed, "OMG! These are AWESOME! I feel like you should be doing this, and that you're wasting your talents here!"
And for a split second, I believed her.
I had a glimmer of hope.
I saw myself sitting at home in my not-yet-built attic studio, molding and sculpting Christmas ornaments. Crafting angels' wings. Putting a carrot nose on a snowman. Vito playing with his toys at my feet.
And it was wonderful.
Then my email binged and slapped me back to reality.