Sunday night in a fit of – something – I decided to pull out this Jackson Pollock jigsaw puzzle my aunt gave me last Thanksgiving with a sort of morbid twinkle in her eye. My father had given it to her many years ago with what I’m sure was that same morbid twinkle in his own eye. The box touts that this is “the world’s most difficult jigsaw puzzle.” Perhaps, Springbok Puzzles. Perhaps.
The gauntlet had been raised.
I am not one to turn away from the gauntlet, in case you don’t know that about me yet.
Tonight, five days later, I finished this 340-piece puzzle. To my credit, I hardly worked on it at all on Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday, thanks to going out running Tuesday night, going out knitting Wednesday night, and going to class on Thursday night. But I promise you that all the times I was running, knitting, or taking notes, little jigsaw-puzzle-shaped pieces of splattered Jackson Pollock paint danced in my brain. It was all I could think about. I would wake up in the middle of the night in a panicked sweat, sure that I had figured out where two of the pieces fit together. Most of the time, frighteningly, I was right.
It was probably the most fun I’ve had doing a jigsaw puzzle in about a hundred years. So worth not eating or sleeping for a week, for sure.
I can’t wait to start the Miro.