Recently I have started partaking in a hobby I used to do all the time: coloring.  No, I don’t mean artful renderings in a sketchbook with pastels.  I mean Crayola and a coloring book for preschoolers with pictures like this:

I colored that last night while watching A&E’s Obsessed.  How’s that for a juxtaposition?

I find coloring incredibly relaxing.  Just like knitting, it busies your hands and is a great tool to prevent after-dinner snacking.  And let’s face it, I’m no great artist.  I will never produce pottery that doesn’t look like a lumpy piece of clay.  I will never produce a painting that isn’t “abstract” (I’m using that word generously).  But with coloring, I can produce an solid piece of work: you know what it is, it’s neat and orderly, and hey, it was my idea to use pink there.

The best part about coloring in your mid-twenties?  I can spring for the 64-pack with the built-in sharpener that my mom would never buy.  6 year old me is so jealous.