I lingered at my desk longer than I needed to before heading out. I wasn’t in a huge rush to get to my pottery class, which wouldn’t start for almost two hours. But I needed time to find this place so I plugged the address into my GPS and tried to follow as best I could.
The college town has so many winding back roads that it took me four tries to find the building I wanted. Even as I arrived, it was way earlier than anyone expected me, so the people who worked there were regarding me strangely. Rightly so, I suppose, since I was two hours early for a class which only lasted two hours.
I waited in the hallway outside the room, while other people arrived for another class. It was some kind of exercise class for kids, and the volume escalated exponentially with each new arrival. The children were sweet, but the mothers were a bit on the ridiculous side. I say this, because I’m obviously the most experienced and knowledgeable mother ever to grace the planet.
I smirked to myself as they worried about putting their kids in preschool, because their kid couldn’t possibly be in one classroom for 8 hours a day. I thought of my own son, the champion of daycare and was grateful that he had that experience under his belt. For him, the transition to preschool would be more seamless because he’s already used to the format. Though I wish I could be a stay at home mom, I’m okay with the choices that we’ve made and the benefits my son has from being socialized as he is.
But, soon, the class began upstairs and they all left. The hall was quiet again until my own classmates began arriving. The pottery class was so different than the ones I’d taken in high school and college. Because there was no grade, the teacher was much more hands on at helping us fix mistakes and let us try over and over again with new slabs of clay. She didn’t even fuss at the slabs we abandoned and left behind, all too happy to rework them back into the scrap pile. I recall being chastised for this exact behavior in my younger days, so old habits die hard.
Throwing pottery was not surprisingly harder than I’d expected it to be. My old skills did not really translate much, and what would really just be a method of feeling one’s way through it was quite challenging. Toward the end, though, I ended up with a respectable bowl with the teacher’s help.
There’s two more classes, so hopefully next week will be less challenging. I’m excited to try again. But if nothing else, there’s at least one thing I’ve produced that’s not a total embarrassment.