Guess who made her first sale on Etsy. That’s right, it’s me. Who’s the badass now, huh? No pictures, but I’ll sign your forehead for fifty bucks.
Okay, it’s not really something to be smug about, but right now I feel like I won the only prize that matters. A real, live person (unless they’re a robot crusader from the future, which is even cooler) wanted something I made enough that they paid actual money for it. I wish they would bottle this selling-stuff-I-made euphoria, because I KNOW I’m going to need another hit once this high wears off. One dose and I’m addicted.
Last night my phone made a weird “cha-ching” noise. A notice appeared on the screen that said something like, “You totally just made some money off of your art, you rad stud.” (It probably didn’t really say that, but that’s how I remember it.)
“Oh my god,” I whispered. “Oh. My. God.” My voice shook as much as my hand as I tenderly touched the “View Notice” button. I refused to blink, afraid that if my eyes left the screen the dream would end.
“What’s wrong?” Tim asked.
“OH MY GOD,” was all I could say. The notice confirmed that someone had bought something from my Etsy shop.
Tim started to look panicky. “Are you okay? What happened? Mae? MAE? Tell me what’s wrong!” I’m pretty sure he thought someone had died, or that I’d received news that the zombie apocalypse had started.
I had to clear my throat several times before I could answer. “I just sold something,” I croaked.
“Oh..that’s good…isn’t it?” Apparently my expression still implied that a horrible tragedy had struck.
“OHMIGOD I JUST SOLD SOMETHING FROM MY ETSY STORE THIS IS FUCKING AMAZING!!” It finally sunk in that this was really happening, and my brain cells leapt to man the battle stations. “Where’s the boxes? And the postal scale? GET OFF THE COMPUTER!”
Poor Tim scrambled to do my bidding while I logged in to my Etsy account to print a shipping label. Everything had to be perfect. I wrote a thank you note to put in the box, then wrote it again because the first one wasn’t fancy enough. I barely restrained myself from including all sorts of extra goodies–including family heirlooms and the kitchen sink–in the shipment, although I did indulge in a set of handmade gift tags. Nothing was too good for my first customer!
After a flurry of frantic activity, the shipment was ready to go. The box hovered in the air, glowing, as a chorus of angels sang something in latin. I’d never seen anything so beautiful.
Once I had calmed down a tiny bit, I made Tim run upstairs to tell Dave the news. I called my parents to verify that the buyer wasn’t my mom under an assumed name. That a total stranger had bought something seemed unbelievable.
It was about then that Tim asked, “So you’re sure you really made a sale and it’s not some kind of scam? Or maybe your phone was just bugging out?”
After I buried his corpse in a shallow grave down by the railroad tracks, I made plans to take the package to the post office the next day. I checked and re-checked my shipping policies to make sure that malicious aliens hadn’t changed them to promise I would wrap the box in solid gold or something. As I mentioned before, everything had to be PERFECT or the world would end. (Seriously, look outside. Is the world still there? Then the package was perfect.)
Now it’s in the hands of the USPS. Part of me is sure something is going to go wrong. What if the mail truck gets in a wreck? What if the buyer hates the item? What if this is all some elaborate prank? What if everyone on the planet is mauled by manticores? What if chocolate starts to taste like lettuce?
What if everything goes right?