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Personal Narrative: Measuring Up

Decent Essays
Measuring Up I had always been fascinated by art, but it was a distant fascination that lent itself more towards observation than actual creation. The winter before I turned fourteen, my eighth grade art class held a contest to create a design for the school district’s Christmas card. Having been sick for three days, I did not hear of the contest until the day it ended. Finding a forgotten sketch I had done of a Christmas bell, I decided that no harm could come from entering it. To my complete and utter stupefaction, I won. The indescribable feeling of pride, accomplishment, and joy that I felt made me realize how much I loved art, and that I might possibly be good at it. Dedicating myself to my newfound passion, I convinced my parents to enroll…show more content…
Sitting in the passenger seat of my mom’s car, seemingly content, I absentmindedly flicked through the radio stations as I finished the overpriced coffee I’d bought on the ride downtown. As I fiddled with the dial, I finally found a suitable tune, and sat back to commence my internal nervous breakdown. Still sipping my cappuccino out of its familiarly branded cup, I panicked with a ferocity entirely undiscovered before that day. What were you thinking!? I raged inside my head, first of all, you’ve got no idea what you’re about to walk into. What if you go in there and everyone is light years ahead of you? What if you just sit there and can’t understand anything they teach you? What if you’re too slow!? Realizing exactly how crazy my inner monologue was becoming, I shook my head as if attempting to throw off my nerves like a dog shaking water droplets out of its coat after a bath. Reaching for the door handle, my fingers…show more content…
The drawing studio was much brighter and more cheerful than the dark, serious, and impersonal room I had created in my mind. Instead, the whitewashed brick walls and large windows made the space airy and inviting. A short, blond woman in flip-flops and a flowing purple sundress, our teacher, bustled into the room behind Victoria and I, her arms precariously loaded with reams of large paper and boxes of charcoal. She skirted the circle of wooden drawing horses, at which we sat with ten other students, dropped her mountain of supplies with an audible sigh of relief, and hopped up onto the edge of her
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