Things I’ve Said Out Loud While Making Leis (That Concerned My Husband)

An intimate look at what happens after midnight when the ribbon starts talking back.

There’s a myth that lei-making is a serene, meditative experience. You picture me in a breezy patio, surrounded by orchids, smiling peacefully as I string flower after flower while a Hawaiian lullaby floats through the air.

Yeah… no.

Making leis alone at night is more like a psychological thriller, part craft therapy, part spiritual battle, and part “this is fine” meme in real time. Here are some actual things I’ve said out loud while crafting that made my family pause, blink, and slowly back away:

“If this ribbon tangles one more time, I’m moving to Iceland.”

Why Iceland? I don’t know. It sounded cold and far enough from ribbon-based trauma. Every lei maker knows the dreaded moment when a perfectly spooled ribbon decides to spontaneously unravel into a knot the size of a coconut. I’ve negotiated with ribbon like it’s a hostage situation.

“Glue gun, don’t test me tonight. I will win.”

This is not a threat. This is a prayer. At this point, my glue gun and I are in a toxic relationship. She burns me. I come back. She clogs. I shake her like a maraca. She leaks hot glue directly onto my thigh. I flinch and say thank you.

It’s giving... codependent craft romance.

“Why does sage green come in 67 shades and NONE of them are right?”

Color-matching for leis should be an Olympic sport. If someone tells you “just a soft sage,” RUN. You’ll end up with 12 spools of ribbon in dusty eucalyptus, misty fern, muted pistachio, depressed mint, and regret. And somehow? None of them will match the dress in the photo they sent you from 2017.

“No, I can’t go to bed. This lei has a vibe and she’s not done talking to me.”

Yes, I assign personalities to leis. Yes, I refer to them as “she.” No, I’m not okay.

My husband once walked in at 1:30 AM while I was whispering to a half-finished lei and asked, “Who’s she?” The ribbon. She is the ribbon. And she’s got an attitude tonight.

“I’ll finish this lei in an hour.”

That was 5 hours ago. Now I’m knee-deep in cardstock because my Cricut decided to go rogue and slice the “Congrats Grad” tags like it’s doing interpretive art. Do I need new blades? A new mat? A new attitude? All of the above.

Meanwhile, I’ve eaten three stale polvoróns and cried once, but silently, because I’m a professional.

In Conclusion:

Lei-making is an act of love. It’s also an extreme sport, a puzzle, a late-night therapy session, and sometimes a silent scream into the void. But when the lei is done, when the colors are perfect, the bows are fluffed, and the tag is finally (finally!!) cut straight, there’s magic in that moment. Even if I now have third-degree glue burns and a ribbon stuck in my hair. :)