Just the Tip.

I love coloring in coloring books, and if I weren't convinced it would freak people out to see an adult whipping out a coloring book, I would totally carry one around. Plus, I'm SUPER good at it. I distinctly remember once recruiting another first grader with remedial coloring skills to join me in the cafeteria for some quick coloring tips. At that moment I knew I was ahead of the curve on CB art.

A short list of my coloring book no-nos:

• The use of any marker: thin or fat tip, primary or bold colors, and don't even get me started on Crayola marker wannabes.
• The use of non-parallel shading lines. Take your chaos someplace else, people.
• Blatant disregard for coloring in the lines. If you don't want to respect the lines, buy a sketchbook.
• Unrealistic color choices, e.g., pink grass, blue giraffes.

You can thank Instagram for this photo's size

And while coloring books, footie pajamas, nightlights and ants on a log must be retired around the time you  start wearing a bra, my identity as a gifted artist stuck with me.

Recently, painting and wine classes started cropping up around D.C., and I figured they would be a great way to showcase my artistic skills and satisfy my desire to color in a way that wasn't creepy. Thus, a few weeks ago, six girlfriends and I showed up to Merlot's Masterpiece to paint Edward Hopper's 1929 Railroad Sunset.

The studio was one medium-sized room dotted with individual workstations. Each station included an easel, a canvas, a paper plate serving as a painter's pallet, a cup of water and three brushes.  Relieved to see their wine selection extended beyond Merlot (I just watched Sideways again) I filled my plastic cup with wine, tied on a white apron and manned my station. 

The instructor then began the class, which was our cue to start chatting amongst ourselves. From time to time we also tried to persuade someone in the back of the room to get us more wine or stopped to ask, "Wait--how'd she do that?"  Soon I was painting merrily along and thinking to myself that this beats the pants off a bar HH when I glanced over at my neighbor, Alysa's canvas. That little pirate had NOT been following the instructions. Why, she was merely interpreting Hopper's work, and her canvas was all creative and unique. No matter, I quietly whispered to myself. I am a coloring genius. I could close my eyes and paint left-handed and still paint circles around these losers  my friends. 

After getting down the background, foreground and clouds, it was time to paint the railroad crossing post and station/lookout tower/outhouse. I selected the thinnest of my three brushes and tried to paint a narrow vertical stripe representing the post.  It seemed a bit thick. I then attempted to paint one of the diagonal lines on the post. Again, kinda fatty. I looked out of the corner of my eye at Alysa's canvas. Her post was a thin whisper of a line. 

I hurriedly rose from my chair anxious to evaluate the competition. Not only did they have skinny posts, they weren't taking this nearly as seriously as they should. Returning to my station, I began planning a post-painting respect for the arts lecture. Clutching my brush, I made an attempt at the tower. I might as well have used my thumb. Grrrr! My eyes narrowing to slits, I glared again in Alysa's direction, and it was then I realized that she, and everyone else, had paintbrushes that were at least fourth the size of mine! My skinny brush was more like their medium brush! I wasn't bad at painting, oh no, I was dealt a crappy solo cup of brushes! Relieved, I turned to my canvas, exhaled deeply and for the first time appreciated my own Railroad Sunset. I happily rejoined the group, painting, yaking and boozing.

From far away, mine almost looks the same as everyone else's.

First of all, I'm aware that denouement (and because I know I'll hear about the use of that word from my friends later: the story's ending) tumbled out rather quickly following the climax, and you, the reader, would have preferred a slower deceleration. What can I say? I'm totally wiped. 

I'm also pretty sure there's a metaphor in there somewhere. Something about the hand you're dealt or lemons to lemonade, but it's almost 1 am, and one should never unravel metaphors this late at night. Suffice to say, everyone really enjoyed themselves, and we all walked away with holiday presents for our grandparents, save Erin, who rushed home to hang her work of art in her bedroom, in the same proud way a four-year-old tacks a mangled piece of construction paper festooned with pipe-cleaners to the fridge. 

For those of you that have made it this far, I would highly recommend this activity generally and Merlot's Masterpiece specifically. When else do you get to drink wine in solo cups, knock out some Christmas shopping and swirl globs of paint together on paper plates all at the same time?