I screw up a lot. Like today, I accidentally put my WHITE labcoat in the washing machine, with 2 pens and a pen-torch. Needless to say, I cannot use those two pens anymore but thankfully, the torch survived. My black pen ended up leaking onto my labcoat, so now I cannot use said labcoat. It’s currently soaking in a bucket full of Chlorox in my bathroom. Will that work? I don’t know. But I sure hope so.
Same pen leaked a few drops on my housemate’s pyjama-singlet. I tried my best to scrub it off. It didn’t work too well but the singlet is gray, so it doesn’t show unless you look for it. I am pretty bummed out by the whole thing. Most of my morning was spent trying to scrub off all the stains. My palms and fingers are pretty raw right now. I just hate myself so much.
Let me expand on what has become the perfect metaphor for my life: hating myself while scrubbing off stains.
As you probably figured out, stains equal ‘mistakes I’ve made’. I have a lot of them. During baptism, we are told to imagine ourselves as cloth, covered in stains, be it original sin or any sins we have made: baptism is the best freaking Chlorox in the world because it cleans ‘your cloth’ so well, you’re shining and as good as new after.
I have accumulated a lot of stains. (This almost sounds dirty. But I’m assuming you all have the sense to read past that). If I were a table cloth, I’d have all sorts of marks from wine stains to those coffee-mug rings all over me. (Still sounds a bit dirty. Just play along, okay?) I probably wouldn’t have been cleaned in a while and sometimes, even after the ‘spin-cycle’, I’d still come out with patches that persist. I am now my labcoat, with the ink permanently embedded on me.
I don’t think anyone likes a stained table-cloth. What happens to stained material? They become rags. I often feel like a rag myself. I am worn at the edges, I fray, I am a pale imitation of what I originally was. I am placed in the pile of rags that are used to wash windows, to wash cars and even to mop up other stains, before being thrown away.
But that’s okay.
Sometimes, it’s fine that the stains don’t run off. It’s fine that you have parts of yourself that you don’t like. Despite my mistakes, I can transform into something else.
One of my favourite shows is Project Runway (probably, the only reality TV show I actually follow religiously) and one of their challenges this season was to make clothes out of junk. You would be surprised at what they came up with. Need proof?
*images are originally from Lifetime’s ‘Project Runway’
Yes, that is made of junk. Those were the winning looks and my personal favourite looks of the episode. Can you tell that they were made out of things that people threw away? Wouldn’t you be pretty proud to wear those clothes? Maybe our tastes differ, but I sure would.
What I’m getting at is this: I am partly broken. I am a worn-out piece of fabric that is in a need of a good scrub. But that’s alright.
I can still be made into art.