Craft Me Wednesday

The next day I was up and ready to get my craft on. First I headed to Wal-Mart for blank CDs and labels to construct the favors. I bought seventy-five CDs and a package of seventy-five CD labels. I self-checked and was out the door and on to Michael’s.

I passed by Walgreens and laughed, “Not today, my friend.”

Two seconds later, I was parked at Michael’s, and the moment had passed. Inside, I headed to the frame aisle and counted three more of the perfect frame. That made four total. I remained quiet and motionless in the frame aisle, waiting for my moment. Then a red-aproned CraftMaster passed by the end of the aisle.

“Excuse me, do you have more frames in the stockroom?” I asked, hoping the question required no firsthand inspection of the frame I held.

“Some we do,” the CraftMaster replied.

The CraftMaster approached, but not alone. The CraftMaster, like the supplies it utilized, carried the crafties. I have not seen a craftie, as no one can with the naked eye, but I have heard they are exceptional leapers. I didn’t know what a safe distance was. Most people don’t even know they carry the crafties, until they find themselves at a scrapbooking party in a macramé vest. I pointed at the frame and took a couple steps back, but at an angle, so I didn’t get too close to the craft supplies looming on the opposite side of the aisle.

“That is a sale frame, so everything should be on the shelf,” it replied.

“Thank you. I have no further questions.”

I audibly exhaled when the CraftMaster departed in the direction from which it came, so there was no awkward and dangerous passing in the aisle. I bought the three additional frames, which would frame half of the bridal party subset of eight. I was more than willing to give the pretty ones to the girls, without hesitation. I later realized that, in my flight from Michael’s, I hadn’t looked for another frame that might be suitable for the male half of the bridal party, and I would have to return.

Back home, I performed a test run of a CD label. It came out looking pretty good. I peeled off the sticker, only to learn that, by running around the heated drum in my laser printer, the sticker now wanted to exist in the fetal position of stickers, curling in on both sides. If the sticky sides touched one another my label would be ruined. This problem required me to use my man hands, which are normal-sized for a male with very respectable dexterity, to circumnavigate the label attachment tool, as a way to restrict the curl without attaching myself to the label, while lining up the CD with the other hand, lowering the CD, and pressing it onto the label with a fluid motion—while removing my curl-restricting fingers at the precise thousandth of a second to avoid the pinch. It was even more painful than it sounds.

After a couple, I decided to leave that frustration for later and went to Kinko’s to dimension my table name pieces, because there is nothing better than being frustrated when heading into a task needing precision and dedication. A friendly associate greeted me and asked whether I needed any help.

“No, I just need to use the super cutter for a while,” I replied.

He graciously waved his hand in the direction of the super cutter. Neither he nor I knew that I would be spending the next two hours at the cutting station. As I began to exhibit stage one crafties, I used some dummy table names to practice and measure the final design, without ruining a final version. I only had one final copy of each, because I was still in stage one.

Once done, I headed out to the car, loaded my stuff, and pulled out of the lot. I heard a thunk and looked in my rearview to see my table-labels box lying in the middle of the road. I don’t remember what required the box to be set on the car roof while I opened the door, but all my work was probably ruined and at the mercy of any oncoming motorist. Having not yet made my good-weather pact with God, I cursed, pulled into the next driveway, and ran back down the street, still cursing, to retrieve the box. I waved at a passing car and got back to the sidewalk. I didn’t know it was possible to be overworked and unemployed at the same time. The box had suffered a little, but the contents looked good. The reception could go on, but I am unsure whether I will ever be the same. Wedding preparation and the crafties had begun to make me lose my mind. I don’t drive off with stuff on top of my car. I don’t lose my train of thought easily. I don’t use electrical appliances in the shower. When will the sanity return?

Should I tell Christa, my future bride, that by the time we get married, she may be marrying a man who is losing his mind, due to a full-blown case of the crafties?

I needed to be held and told everything would be OK, to hear that soon I’d be married and could let my crafty persona get flabby, and no one would mind. I finally had a day that needed listening to, and Christa was there.

She loved the table names and said, “Who’s my little wedding planner? Who is it?”

We both enjoyed the brainless entertainment of sitcom reruns that evening. And later, I learned that the best way to put the crafties into remission was to drink beer and watch sports and manly construction shows, until I realized construction is nothing more than crafties on steroids, and knew I was in for a long, slow recovery.
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival