The older I get, the more drawn I become to babies, and shoes. This doesn’t bode well for my financial future.

2.) In junior high I dressed so as not to be noticed. In high school I chopped off my hair and shopped almost exclusively in the boy's and men's section of the Goodwill. In my early twenties I was all concerned about looking conventional/professional and owned a lot of expensive cardigans and slipper shoes. So far, I have felt most at-home in my current phase: what I like to call "bullshit clothes.”

3.) My new favorite thing about living with my sister: the sounds of bemused disgust that accompany my favorite outfits. “What the fuuuuuuuck,” she sighed at first sight of knee-high moccasins. (Her enthusiastic approval or disapproval is how I gauge much of my success in dressing for the day — no reaction and I have failed.)

But flats don’t really go with burlesque, and your wee black dancing shoes don’t really fit with the image of Glinda you need to pull of this Saturday, so — whatever, economy! — you go shoe shopping.

Vegas, here I come! (Larger and even more absurd.)

2.) You tell the shoe salesman (5’2″) that you have literally never worn heels that measure more than a couple centimeters, and you have no idea how to stand up, let alone walk, let alone dance. You stagger to the store mirror like an invalid.

“Just vacuum in them!” he tells you. “Wear them while you’re dusting, cleaning your apartment, that kind of thing. You’ll learn, no problem.” He grins.

You think he’s maybe being a sexist jerk, but the next day you try it out, and he’s totally right. It’s something about the small steps, the weight shifting back and forth, the third leg support of the vacuum. It’s like housework was invented for new shoes!

The only problem really, is that you feel like maybe you’re compromising some essential values. You’re still cool, right? Vacuuming in heels and shit?

3. Also: oh my goodness. Look at your legs. Look at your butt. Heels are amazing! “Ooo!” your boyfriend says. Then, “are you my height when you wear those?”

I . . . love you (larger)

Really, I do (larger)

See how freaking shiny these boots are? That is amazing. And comfortable, too — I went out dancing in them, to the rave reviews of some old dude. If we could own nothing but rain boots for footwear, stores would be amazing; because no other type of shoe gets to both look freaking insanely adorable and be functional. It just doesn’t happen in nature.

(Unfortunately, I should add that my very first broken heart has apparently left me a jaded and distrustful woman. Rain boots can leak? What the fuck is that about? Now with every step, even now, in my completely new, completely more comfortable, in-many-ways-superior rain boots — I wonder if this is the day they’ll betray me.)

I wrote to my family members in November, asking for help buying the ticket home.

As you’ve probably discerned I’m low on income this season/year/lifetime(?), so I was thinking about getting craftsy this Christmas in lieu of spendy. Is there anything in particular you’d like knit (mittens! socks! pom-pom hats!), written (odes! sonnets! college entrance essays! greeting-cards!), web-design’d (headers! blogger account set-ups! social-networking presences!), radio’d (radio!), baked (pumpkin bread! cookies!), or created in some other handy fashion?

If there’s one thing I have, it’s time. And if there’s one thing I love, it’s glitter glue.

The following two months were a little intense, with their share of 5am finishing touches. But also, super awesome. Suddenly I was off the internet, catching up on episodes of This American Life and The Moth, learning how to divide heels and add stitches. I was doing things with my hands. I guess I’d kind of forgotten I had hands.

Scarf for Jan (Larger and other view.)

Story for Dad (Larger and other view.)

Collage for Paige (Larger and other view.)

Socks for Mom (Larger and other view.)

The whole experience got me thinking. A friend of mine works at the North Bennet Street School of craftmanship, and in December they were having an open house. She invited me to stop by.

And now, suddenly, I work in their gallery once a week, selling student work and supplies: the tiniest saws you’ve ever seen and a million different chisels and awls and clamps and ninety-dollar chrome rulers. The majority of the supplies we sell I’ve never seen before, couldn’t tell you how they could be used. The other day I was tittering in the back room, dusting what appeared to be decapitators while Italian opera merged from the speakers overhead with the alarming, muted buzz of wood-sanding two doors over. I’m trading my time, organizing safety goggles for a cloth-case bookbinding course in February.

I think I’m in love.

I got all kinds of lovely, thoughtful things for Christmas, but so far this pair of socks has garnered the most admiration. Ten-year-old Adrianne would be so disappointed in me.

Mostly, I’m just consistently amazed that my actions have no consequences. Last week it was thirty-eight degrees, alternating rain and hail, and I spent a half hour traipsing in the park near my apartment, running down hills and plowing through puddles. Nothing happened. No wetness, no dirt, no icy death seeping into these feet that take five days to warm up again; I was fucking unstoppable.

The forecast says nonstop rain for the next three days. Bring it, Boston.