The Globe and Mail
Adrienne Matei
Published January 23, 2021
Hiraman/iStockPhoto / Getty Images
When I was young, I was crafty. Not in the “sneaky” sense of the word (although I was that, too) but literally – I did crafts, prodigiously. My childhood hobbies included bracelet weaving, beading and bug collecting. I collected Klutz books, those chunky girlhood manuals that advised one on skills such as hair braiding and face painting, and I learned the art of making balloon animals, for which I retain the bizarre muscle memory.
These DIY proclivities persisted into my teens, when I painted on, ripped up and re-stitched half of my clothes; for a while, I thought I might go to art school. But I didn’t. Instead, when I went to university, I forgot about the things I used to do in favour of buckling down and developing some vices. By the time I finished my undergraduate degree, my interest in hobbies, crafts, or creating much of anything with my hands had pretty much evaporated.