Covid got you down? Impending cold weather a reminder you hate gloves? Can’t handle the fact Christmas is around the corner and the only thing you’re thankful for is blankets you can crawl under to hide from the world? I’ve got you covered. One spare afternoon and you, too, can build your own decorative wreath!
How to make a festive winter wreath of self-loathing:
Step 1.
For a good, sturdy base, make sure you begin this project without any gratitude whatsoever. I like to start by weaving together zero optimism with the bleakest outlook on life I can muster.
Step 2.
As you braid your terrible attitude into a fun circle, try to add some anger on every third pass. If you’re having trouble coming up with things to be angry about, here are some suggestions:
- Everyone in the world has more stuff than you do.
- Everyone has a cleaner/nicer house than you.
- No one has problems as bad as yours.
- Everyone always has a good hair day and you perpetually look like Helen Hunt in the last scene of Twister. Except girlfriend’s hair didn’t look that bad at the end, and her abs were totally on point. Ugh. Be angry about that. Be angry at Bill Paxton, too.
Step 3.
Having woven a great base, it’s time to get out that hot glue gun and start adding a layer of resentment. I prefer leaves and vines made from ill will I’ve gathered from the internet. (Fun tip: The internet is a fantastic place to grab discounted irritation and 50% off indignation.)
Step 4.
Carefully overlap and hot glue the leaves and vines to give your wreath a look of robust sadness. Watch out. If you don’t add enough resentment, the wreath starts to look sparse and lets gratitude show through the holes. Hideous. How are you going to Pin that?
Step 5.
Head back to the internet. It’s time to gather accent pieces. (My fave part!) In some other wreath-making tutorials, I’ve seen crafters add flowers or decorative wheat. I prefer to add berries of jealousy and despair. Specifically, head over to Instagram and peruse how others live their lives. Some types of accent pieces that worked for me in the past are:
- Realizing everyone’s makeup always looks perfect and I never have the time to put any on.
- Admitting I’m the only person in the word who’s not a size 2.
- Coping with the fact that, with the exception of my own kids, every child in the world is impeccably-styled.
- Accepting the hard truth that everyone in the world is rich.
- Making peace with the sad reality every other person on the planet is on vacation in the Bahamas, except me.
Step 6.
This is the critical step of choosing the focal point for your wreath. Remember, the right object can make or break all your hard work, so pick wisely. This season, I tried to focus on the fact I wasn’t doing or achieving enough. Crafter’s Monthly said this was more indicative of last craft season, but I say go with your gut. Things I used as my focal point included:
- Reminding myself I’m 32 and haven’t done anything groundbreaking, like discovering a cure for a disease or winning the Nobel Prize for literature.
- Worrying I don’t parent nearly as well as other parents and becoming positive I’m ruining all my children in some way I’m not sure of yet (have narrowed this down to more affection/less affection/more time helping with homework/less time with homework to inspire independence/yelling less/yelling more to prevent death on part of people who climb and fall off everything).
- Accepting that every other human has a beautifully decorated house, while I’m on my third month of painting kitchen cabinets, my linoleum is curling, and hand prints cover our walls from ceiling to floor.
- I have split ends.
Step 7.
Now that your wreath is done, make sure not to hang it on the front door. Let it sit inside your house and gather dust. Showing it to other people might lead them to comment on it and bring up their own wreaths. Downer, right?
Right.
A version of this post was first published on paigekellerman.com
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About the Author
Paige Kellerman is a writer, humorist, and mother whose hypochondria is exceeded only by her ability to change diapers. Part sinner, part saint, part gin enthusiast, she spends her days running after four children and trying to call everyone by the right name. Her humor has been featured on Mashable, Huffington Post, Babble, For Her, and many other sites. She is the author of At Least My Belly Hides My Cankles and The Beer’s Folded and the Laundry’s Cold, and is hard at work on her next collection of humor.