The Bed Aurora Built
I recently got it into my head that I should build the bed for my guest room/office/barre studio. And once I get an idea in my head, well, look out.
I went online and found some super simple plans (love you, Ana White!) that only required tools I already have. I tweaked them a tad because I wanted a full-size day bed (it’s a long story). I went to Lowe’s, I got all the supplies (love you, Ruby!), and I got to it.
I measured and cut. I got the whole frame and headboard assembled in one day. I posted my progress on Facebook. A #handyfemme triumph.
I stained it the next day. Wait wait wait. Coat of poly. Wait wait wait. Sand and second coat. Eh, let’s do a third.
It was during this process I realized I missed a splotch of wood glue during construction, which means a splotch where the stain didn’t take. I almost sanded the whole thing and started over, but I thought better of it.
It was also around this time I realized there wasn’t an obvious way to connect the frame and headboard because I basically I had a king-sized headboard I wanted to put on the long side of a full-size frame and the trim created just enough of a gap to be an issue.
I consulted my favorite handyman, bought some bolts, drilled some holes, and put it all together. I even used my new clamps! Only the bolts weren’t quite right. So I had to improvise. I almost went back to the store for new bolts. But, in the end, I thought better of that, too. I grabbed some scrap wood. I improved some more. Many, many screws were involved.
My guest bed is now done. It’ll be comfy for guests and Oliver and when I want to “stretch out for just a minute” while writing. Know what else?
It isn’t perfect.
Just like my body. Or my last manuscript. Or my half-hearted attempts at housekeeping. Or the back pasture I still haven’t mowed.
I’ve decided I love my new bed, not in spite of its imperfections, but because of them. Because I did it myself. Because imperfect is way more interesting. Because it’s solid (I think!) and sturdy (I hope!). Because it gets the job done and makes me smile.
You know, I used to be a perfectionist. In part because I believe in doing things well, but in part because being a perfectionist is a status symbol. Like being busy. Only, instead of making you better than everyone else, it sucks up your time and your energy and somehow manages to leave you vaguely disappointed most of the time.
So fuck it. Let’s be imperfect and not sweat it and enjoy life and each other. Let’s in revel in good enough and time to spare. I’ll remind you if you remind me. I need those reminders because I’m sort of a recovering perfectionist. Those pesky little voices haven’t been completely vanquished. And that’s okay because, you know, nobody’s perfect.
