As the least experienced member of the crew renovating the Pink House, I am often the doer of the least skilled work. OK, I can handle that. Frequently, I sweep up whatever saw dust and other gray sediment is filling the corners and threatening the vents, and I’ve found an awful lot of old nails in among the dust. I picked them out, brought them home, and tonight (off the clock, boss), I began to straighten things bent. As my pal AKC likes to say, this is not a metaphor.
Lacking confidence, I did what any self-respecting woman who’s made a resolution to trust herself more would do, I Googled, “how to straighten bent nails,” and found a great DIY site that assured me that straightening nails is a work of finesse, not strength. GOOD NEWS, especially given my recent underperformance drilling furring strips to the ceiling, which used up most of my weekly allotment of strength. Finesse I’ve got. So I poured myself a glass of wine, Hulu’d me some network comedy, found a piece of 2×4 in the basement to use as a work bench, and went to work hammering those spikes aright!
I do not think that the men I work with will choose my admittedly-still-a-little-crooked nails over new nails, but there is something inherently wonderful in saving something from the dustbin and making it useable again. If I didn’t believe that, I wouldn’t be working on this house in the first place.