Tag Archives: self-improvement

Running from DIY Delusion

If you’ve ever found yourself scrolling through Pinterest, you’ll know it’s a bit like wandering into a bakery after a juice cleanse—everything looks so easy, so achievable, so… not at all like your actual life. Pinterest, with its glossy photos and endless scroll, is the internet’s way of whispering, “You could do this. You really could.” And like a moth to a flame, I believed it.

For months, I’ve been nurturing the idea of installing a board and batten wall. Not just any wall, mind you, but the perfect wall. The sort of wall that, if it could talk, would say, “I was born for this.” I had the time, the motivation, and, after a recent cardiac adventure that left me feeling like a deflated pool float, an urgent need to prove I could still accomplish something more ambitious than folding laundry.

Enter: the nail gun. A tool I’d dreamed of owning, right up there with a self-cleaning oven and a Roomba that doesn’t get stuck on socks. Three months ago, I bought one. I read the directions (twice!); I watched YouTube tutorials; I even made a playlist called “Nail Gun Anthems.” And then, like any responsible adult, I let it sit in the corner for ninety days, gathering dust and silently judging me.

Eventually, the lure of Pinterest perfection proved too strong. I rallied Chas and the kids for a family outing to the lumber yard, which, if you’ve never been, is like IKEA for people who think splinters are a badge of honor. There, I agonized over wood choices, grain patterns, and whether I could pull off flannel in June. Supplies purchased, I returned home, ready to embark on my first real project with power tools that weren’t a drill.

How did it go? Let’s just say it was a rousing success—if you define “success” as “the wall is still standing and most of my fingers remain attached.” I did cut a few boards too short, but I’m convinced the wall is crooked, not my measuring tape. This is the story I’m sticking with, and I dare anyone to prove otherwise.

Like running (which, let’s be honest, is mostly just running from my own questionable decisions), DIY is a marathon, not a sprint. The first training cycle is always the hardest, mostly because you have no idea what you’re doing, and the internet is full of liars. But for a first attempt, I’m calling it a win. I enjoyed the process, I learned a lot, and I only swore in front of the children twice. Progress!

My summer to-do list is still longer than a CVS receipt, but my goal is simple: add value to my grandma’s house (our current rental) and, perhaps, convince my family that I am, in fact, a useful human being. After years of asking for help, it feels good to give something back—even if that something is a slightly uneven wall.

So here’s to another trip to the lumber yard, another project, and another day with all ten fingers. May your Pinterest dreams be slightly more achievable than mine—and may your nail gun always be pointed away from your toes.

Running from Decisions

Decision fatigue, I’ve discovered, is not just real—it’s a kind of existential jet lag. There are days when I feel as though my brain has been mugged by a gang of particularly indecisive squirrels. These are the days when I am required to make an endless series of choices, ranging from the mildly irritating (“Should I answer this email now or in three years?”) to the wildly consequential (“Should I quit my job and move to a remote island where the only decision is coconut or mango?”).

I have, in fact, left jobs over this. Some people thrive on decision-making, but I am not one of them. What’s good for the goose, as they say, is often just a migraine for the gander. There is something peculiarly exhausting about having the fate of things—projects, people, snack selections—resting in your hands. It’s not just overwhelming; it’s like being handed the controls to a nuclear reactor and told, “Don’t touch anything, but also, everything depends on you.”

As a mother, I am required to make decisions with the frequency and urgency of an air-traffic controller, except my “planes” are small, loud, and sticky. Making choices for myself is one thing, but making them for others is a whole different kettle of fish fingers. People, it turns out, care deeply about the decisions that affect them, and if you get it wrong, you will hear about it. Loudly. Possibly with interpretive dance.

So, in an act of self-preservation, I have whittled my daily quota of decisions down to the bare minimum. This has, admittedly, put a slight dent in my previously go-getterish persona. I’ve taken a job that allows me to spend more time with my children and less time making decisions, and, through some cosmic clerical error, I’m actually paid more for it. I am, it must be said, bored at times—bored in the way that only someone who has spent an hour comparing brands of dishwasher tablets can be bored. But I love my work, my workplace, and the people I work with.

Perhaps, when my children are older and no longer require my guidance on matters such as sock selection and the ethics of eating the last cookie, I’ll wade back into the decision-making fray. For now, I am content—grateful, even. My biggest daily dilemma is what to serve for dinner, and honestly, that’s quite enough excitement for me.