Eleven Hours Later

I'm feeling a little better.

I'd meant to get those bags in the mail- the ones that sold off my ETSY store site while I was splashing around in Clear Lake, eating red licorice and pretending not to have a care in the world.

I'd managed some other nagging things on my "boring stuff to get done" list: the pharmacist had been phoned ("Can you please ask my Doc for a renewal of whatever medication I'm on right now for my unceasing anxiety? It causes some memory loss.... can't remember the name of it just now.....") I'd emptied out the camper of its past few summers of rif raf. I'd clipped back some daisies. I threw the dishes into their appropriate spaces. I laundered five million things.

But I hadn't gotten those bags mailed, so I dug out my stash of bags to hunt for the appropriate three.

I found two. And felt my stomach drop, realizing I'd likely sold it at a recent event but neglected to remove it from the ETSY store. ooops.

These aren't exactly reproducible. Remember that whole braggy bit about every bag being unique? Made entirely out of post-consumer textiles? Hard to find those same bits after they've all been used up.....

I panicked a little, meditated on what I failure I am, saw my life go up in flames, my store being shut down, my online reputation in the toilet.

No big deal.

Then I got to work. I found another Oriole. I found some bits that looked awesome alongside of it, and I stitched the whole lot together. I sent a photo to the shafted customer, apologizing and offering to send her ten thousand dollars in compensation, and to have my hair shorn in shame. Something like that.

Then because I'd already thrown my psyche into the toilet, I commenced Operation Freak Out and Fear The Worst Whilst Berating Oneself. You see, I've signed up for roughly twelve billion sales this summer/fall and have meanwhile been selling bags about as fast as I've been able to sew more. I spent some energy berating myself for not keeping up with the ETSY shop. Then moved on to some flogging about not blogging. While on that track, I mourned my identity as the Worst Blog Reader In The Universe.

I kept trying to write stuff down to get it out of my head and be able to make some sense of it, but I'd lost the ability to create a sentence. Maybe I was broken? Busted? Kapoot? Has-been?

But now its eleven hours later. The make up bag has passed ETSY inspection, and my fragile reputation is holding fast. It looks like today will pass without my seller rating plunging into the minuses.

I've been sitting at the sewing machine from ten o'clock this morning until nine o'clock this evening and there are seven bags to count as inventory.

My head is a busy place. Sometimes I have trouble being fully aware of the outside conversations because the shouting in my own head is rather loud and distracting. I don't need a committee of critics in the real world since I carry a whole damn team of them above my shoulders all the freaking time.

I have a firm plan to fire all the bitches in my head. It's firm, really. And when they all shut up and quit bugging me, I'm gonna evict them all. The whole committee is going OUT.

But for now, they're yelling at me to go sew stuff. That I've made promises, and only Super Bad People break their promises. They're also yelling other stuff about what a bore I've been lately, how the carpets sure do need to be vacuumed, and quite a bit of nonsense about how I have too much stuff and should really stop collecting because clearly I'm a nutcase of committable proportions.

Crabby lot.

 

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