It started with one simple text: “Would you really do this for a story?” My editor’s question sat there on my phone screen like an uninvited houseguest, daring me to answer. The “this” in question? Attending a couples pottery class to dissect how physical touch and shared creative experiences shape emotional intimacy. As a perpetually single writer whose romantic life feels more like an ongoing blooper reel than a polished rom-com, the idea seemed like a peculiar kind of torture. But my editor’s words lingered, and soon enough, I found myself in an apron, spinning mud into what I hoped wouldn’t be a metaphorical disaster.

The Things We Do for Love… Or Content

There’s a certain thrill in chasing a story, and by “thrill,” I mean curious dread filled with secondhand embarrassment. Walking into the pottery studio, surrounded by couples exchanging “urban farmer’s market in sunshine” energy, I felt like I’d been dropped into an alternate universe. Some folks had “date glow” written all over them—you know, the kind where couples use inside jokes as punctuation and casually touch each other’s lower backs like it’s as natural as breathing. Then there was me: the designated awkward observer, armed with a notepad and far too much skepticism.

It’s funny what you notice when you’re the lone singleton in a room of hand-holding duos. Everyone else carried this unspoken rhythm, like an ensemble cast in a TV sitcom where I was the bumbling guest star. I hadn’t even touched the clay yet, and already, the parallels between spinning pottery and building relationships became as clear as DMs left on read. Both require patience, communication, and the willingness to get messy. Really messy.

The Great Clay Breakup (and What It Taught Me)

I partnered with an instructor—a kind-faced older man named Gus—since bringing a last-minute plus-one seemed more complicated than solving a Rubik’s Cube blindfolded. Gus talked about the “importance of balance” as we worked on co-creating a bowl. He explained how pressing too hard can flatten the clay, while being too hands-off leaves it floppy and uncentered. “You gotta move with it, not against it,” he said, and it hit me like a rusty anvil: this was a relationship metaphor just waiting to be printed on a Pinterest-worthy graphic.

Five minutes into molding the clay, things took a dramatic turn. Our bowl caved in. Gus laughed and said, “It happens, just start over.” Easy for Gus, whose hands moved with the precision of someone who’d been doing this for years. I, on the other hand, stared at the lumpy remains like it held the secret to my dating history. Why do we all seem to press too hard or not try hard enough? Why is finding the “we” rhythm so elusive?

In a moment of questionable judgment, I asked the room for advice. Shyness be damned; this was research. “What’s your secret to working together like that?” I asked one couple who looked like they were straight out of a lifestyle catalog. The man grinned, glancing at his partner like she hung the stars. “Communication,” he said. “And trust,” she added. Behind my smile, I silently battled every rom-com trope that trained me to envy this exact brand of tandem perfection. But their candor? Unavoidable truth. Every cracked pot can be mended if both sides are committed to the fix. Or something like that.

The Fun Side of (Controlled) Chaos

Now, I’d be lying if I said this whole pottery-date experiment was all soul-crushing wisdom and no fun. There’s something oddly therapeutic about slapping clay onto a wheel. It’s like dancing badly when no one’s watching—you don’t care about getting it right, only about the rhythm you create while trying.

The couples around me played into one of two types: The Joke-y Flirters and The Perfect Team. The Joke-y Flirters were in hysterics trying to top each other’s creative clay atrocities, (“You call that a vase? This looks like The Leaning Tower of Pisa, but make it tragic!”). Meanwhile, The Perfect Team glided through each stage seamlessly, creating pottery worthy of selling on Etsy. Both approaches had their charm but watching them up close offered one crucial lesson: partnership looks different for everyone.

I accidentally threw a decent-looking plate into the class kiln by the end of the night. It was unintentional, but after my crash course in mishaps and new metaphors, I realized that even imperfect creations deserve to be celebrated.

Lessons from a Lopsided Bowl

After the class—and after awkwardly dodging a couple who asked if I was “saving a seat for someone special”—I left with just enough clay under my nails to feel like I’d really committed to the experience. More importantly, I walked away with these takeaways:

  • Perfection Is Overrated: Whether it’s pottery, relationships, or anything else in life, the most memorable moments often stem from imperfection. Case in point: everyone remembers the wobbly bowl, not the flawless one.
  • Shared Goals Matter: Seeing couples work toward a tangible outcome (even if it was just a wonky ashtray) reinforced the value of striving toward something together, regardless of how the finished product turns out.
  • Stay Playful: There’s beauty in treating life—and love—as an ongoing experiment. When things fall apart, laugh, regroup, and try again. Bonus points if you poke fun at your bad bowl while knowing it’s one of a kind, just like you.

Muddy Hands, Clear Takeaway

Would I voluntarily attend another pottery class solo? Probably not. But do I respect the couples who laughed their way through their clay-filled chaos, embracing vulnerability so easily? Absolutely. There’s something to be said for putting aside the polished exterior of relationships and embracing the mess instead.

At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter whether you’re building a bowl or building a bond—what counts is showing up, hands ready to get messy. Because let’s face it, everything worth keeping requires a little chaos, a lot of effort, and maybe even an instructor named Gus to guide you along the way.