This Is Why I Don't Sleep

A lady planted a little seed in my brain last week and now I have a 6-inch bean sprout poking out of my ear. We were spraying down our spin bikes and chatting. She asked what I did besides teach spin, I told her I was an artist and she perked right up. "I'm an artist, too! I have a bookbinding studio."

I practically dropped my spray bottle. Bookbinding was my number one complete unrequited love back in college. It is in fact tied with Ossie Antonetti, the dreamy afroed volleyball player from Puerto Rico, who's life sized cardboard image graced my apartment wall until I moved out, got married and was told that, "No, he cannot be stapled gunned to our ceiling."

Bookbinding was the one class that I always wanted to take but never could get into. Sometimes, I'd go into the room where the class was held and breathe in the glue, the paper, the bone folders. And then I'd walk around and leer at the cool books being made, with all of the special papers and the special fibers and the special techniques and the special...specialnesses. Sigh.

So then this woman either handed me a wad of cash or said this, I don't remember which because I would be equally excited by either one: "Come to my studio. I'll teach you everything you need to know."

Uh oh.