The Art of Coincidence
I allowed myself three days of self-pity before I got to work.
That day after I’d beelined out of class, I threw myself into the internship at the museum before retreating into my room for the duration of the night. I let myself cry, let myself eat entirely too much chocolate, and let myself fall asleep with tear-stained cheeks and half a bottle of wine swimming in my system.
Tuesday and Wednesday were spent just getting by — going to class, studying, working at the museum, eating, trying and failing to figure out what to paint, go to bed, wake up, repeat.
I found myself reflecting a lot in that time, too, thinking about what Professor Beneventi had said about perfectionism. It was difficult for me to wrap my head around, that he saw it as a bad thing rather than something to be celebrated.
All my life, I’d strived for perfect. In fact, I’d given up whatever was necessary in order to achieve perfection, or as close to it as I could manage. I got straight As all through school, though it meant sacrificing my social life. I graduated valedictorian of my high school and with high honors from college, and I didn’t mind that my life consisted primarily of studying or painting — especially because when I won an art award or got honor roll, my friends would congratulate me and say how they wished they could be like that, too.
I flossed and brushed my teeth every morning and night, just like my dentist told me. I went to church every Sunday, just like a good Christian girl should. I played golf throughout school and with my dad at the club, volunteered at the local nursing home, and was always first in the kitchen to clean up after dinner, called my grandparents once a month, and read a book a week, learned how to style my hair and apply makeup like the artist I was — all in the name of being perfectly well rounded.
Perfection, in my life, had always been celebrated.
Then again, was it perfection, or was it relative perfection?
I replayed milestones in my life — award ceremonies and graduations — and wondered idly if all those honors and all that praise came only because I had managed to do something merely ordinary, but with a disability, making it a feat.
It stumped me for those first few days after being hung out to dry in front of the entire class, but on Thursday evening, I sat down at my easel in my room with a fresh canvas and a chance to start anew. I was determined to pick myself up again. I was determined not to let the way the summer had started dictate the way it would continue, nor the way it would end.
I sat down with every intention of pushing forward.
And not a single idea came to me.
Three soft knocks at my doorframe shook me awake after what felt like an eternity of staring at that blank, mocking canvas. I blinked out of my daze to find Angela leaning against the frame with a plate balanced in her hands.
“I was craving a good ol’ fashioned PB and J,” she said. “Easy dinner, right? That’s what I thought. But you wouldn’t believe the trouble I went through to find this damn peanut butter. Apparently, it’s not a food the Italians bother with much. I got more than a few puzzled looks when I asked about it. I went to eight different stores until I finally found the tiniest jar to ever exist. Eight!” She lifted one of the sandwiches off the plate before extending the one left to me. “Care to indulge in some fine American cuisine with me?”
I didn’t know why that was the straw that broke me, but as soon as I took the sandwich in my hands, I burst into tears.
Angela softened with a sigh, setting both our sandwiches back on the plate before yanking me up off the chair and wrapping me in her arms.
I soaked the shoulder of her baggy t-shirt with my tears, clinging to her for the longest time before I finally sniffed and pulled back from the hug. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I knew you weren’t okay.” She frowned, rubbing my arm. “What’s going on?”
“Oh, nothing. Other than I’m not an artist like I thought, and I’m trying to wrap my head around the fact that I’ll be an accountant for the rest of my life.”
Angela offered a soft smile. “Come on, now. What happened?”
I sighed, sitting on the edge of my bed with my hands tucked under my thighs. “We turned in our assignment on Monday.”
“Oh, my God! What did Professor B think of yours? It was so beautiful.”
I tried to smile. “He said it was beautiful.”
“See!”
“But, again, boring. Lackluster. Completely emotionless.”