I made a birthday cake for tonight’s party. It was pretty sad looking. I forgot to take a picture of it and now there isn’t much left of it to look at. I don’t know why I enjoy making cakes, but I do. I always envision in my mind what they will look like and they never quite come out that way. The icing is messy, the trees are midgets, the wardrobe falls apart and the walls sag under their own weight (not too much different from our own home). Instead of creating Narnia I had some green octupuses in a white ocean.
Why do I have such high expectations for myself? I know going in that I will be disappointed by the outcome, but yet I don’t set realistic standards. I am my worst critic. I know this, but I just can’t seem to change.
So if you make a graham cracker wardrobe, don’t ice it, it can’t handle the pressure. And bamboo skeweres will not go through the tiny hole in the middle of a twizler, but they will go through human flesh if shot from a large rubber band (ask my husband).
Ahh, how life parallels the things we do. I sag under pressure and some days I feel like a sharp stick is jabbing right into me.