According to the DIY article, ironing on the banding edging was the most tedious step when building an over-ornament coffee table. However, the change of the thick trim under the iron’s heat—melting into the layered plywood—was as satisfying as making a sandwich with slices from a loaf I’d baked myself. It’s not unlike me to get impatient, to see the extra steps and the additional time required, and pull the good-enough cord.
Although I don’t know what else the table needs to feel blue-ribbon worthy, I keep eyeing the five screw heads filled with wood filler—marks that don’t take stain well, or rather take it too well—and break the continuity of the board. With time, maybe my critical eye will subside. Ninety-five times out of a hundred, it does.
I know this intensity in me. Not too long ago, my design and décor choices each had a brain-surgery level of thought and precision, and yet now, as I shuffle around, I’m unbothered by the ¼-inch-high drawer pull or the too-shiny gold plant-hanging bar. Okay, so maybe I still notice—but their off-ness is accepted. It’s fine. It is what it is. Kind of like my brother showing up late to holidays. Love you, Kyle.
I am no woodworker. I am frugal, handy, and motivated, but let me repeat it: I am no woodworker. I could be, but I don’t want to put in the time. I want to walk in, hit grand slams on projects, and not put in any effort. What a butthead I am. Don’t tell Evelyn I called myself that. That word—and “stupid” and “dumb butt”—gets me a full “Moooom!” scolding.
Which I love. And because I love being corrected by a six-year-old, my tongue will continue to flap freely.
I could stain the table darker. The grain is good, but there’s a tint to it, and a dark, flawed line. A darker stain could hide those, but I’d lose that natural wood color.
I did make one dumb-dumb error. One of the legs and the top have bold, wiggly, Richter-scale-like rings. The other side is muted. Now that I’m staring at it, I don’t think I used the wrong side—I think that side just never got stained. And looking at how every other side shows the rings boldly, this one much less so, I’m almost certain I skipped it.
Overall, I’m happy. But I shouldn’t have gotten up and taken a picture of it. I got critical. Too critical. No angle was camera-ready. Wondering if it was just me, I pulled up my inspiration picture. They could be fraternal twins. Not identical, mind you, but definitely related. I need to take a chill pill.
My mind flashed back to the first time I heard that phrase—in Westwood Elementary’s gym from the PE teacher. She was new and young and therefore very cool. Her “take a chill pill” wasn’t as worldly as finding your parents’ porn magazine and VHS stash for the first time, but close.
Projects spur an uphill rattle and a downhill rush in me—the strong roller coaster comes out when I really care about something. One coat on the side closest to me, and I’ll be done. I’ll heed Dave’s reason and take a month away from it. For my sanity, I have to. There are only seven days until we fly out, and I’m in the market for taking things off my plate, not piling on more.
My goal for the rest of the evening is not to side-eye it. To focus on other things. To sweep my gaze across the living room gently, without pausing or locking in.
Gentle sweeps.
Gentle sweeps.
Love,
Jaclynn
Going On 40 