So, here I am, staring at this 40/70 scoreboard for my project. That’s where things stand. Forty done, aiming for seventy.
You’d think, ‘Hey, more than halfway there! Coasting to the finish line!’ Yeah, I thought that too, for about five minutes. Felt pretty good, actually. Like I was really cracking on with it.
But let me tell you, that ‘40’ can be a real piece of work. A deceptive number, that one. Those first forty items, they were the low-hanging fruit. The stuff that looks good on a progress chart but doesn’t really test you, you know? They were the tasks I kinda knew how to do, or could figure out pretty quick. Click, click, done. Felt like a genius.
Now I’m into the back end of this thing, the stuff after hitting 40. And man, it’s a different beast altogether. This remaining thirty, it’s like they saved all the nasty bits for last. It’s not just one big problem; it’s a whole bunch of smaller, meaner problems. Each one feels like climbing a mountain in flip-flops.
You got parts that are almost impossible to find, techniques you’ve never even heard of, and instructions that might as well be written in Martian. Suddenly, that 70 looks a million miles away. It’s a real grind, and progress has slowed to a crawl. It’s like wading through treacle. Every single step forward feels like a battle.
Why am I even putting myself through this?
Good question. Sometimes I ask myself that, usually when I’ve spent an hour trying to get one tiny thing right and it still looks wrong. This whole thing, this project, it’s about an old workbench I’m trying to restore for my workshop. Sounds simple, right? Slap some wood together?
Well, this isn’t just any workbench. It was my grandad’s. He was a carpenter, a proper old-school craftsman. When he passed, I inherited his workshop, tools and all. Most of it was in good shape, but his main bench, the heart of the place, was falling apart. I mean, really battered. Years of him hammering and sawing and spilling glue on it.
I made a promise to myself, and kinda to him in my head, that I’d bring it back to life. Not just patch it up, but do it properly. Make it something he’d be proud of. I figured there were about 70 major steps or parts to deal with. Cleaning, stripping, repairing, replacing, finishing.
The first 40 steps? That was the easy stuff, relatively speaking. Taking it apart carefully, sanding down the big flat surfaces, replacing some clearly rotten bits of wood. I was making visible progress, and it felt amazing. I was all puffed up, thinking, ‘I’ve got this. Nearly there.’
But these last 30… these are the tricky bits. Intricate joinery I’ve never attempted before, sourcing specific types of old-growth timber to match the original, trying to replicate his specific style of finishing. Some of the metal hardware is rusted solid or broken, and finding exact replacements is a nightmare. It’s all the stuff that needs real skill, not just enthusiasm.
That 40/70 mark, it’s a tough spot. You’ve put in so much work, but the end feels further away than when you started sometimes. It’s not just about the physical work; it’s the mental game too. Pushing through when every little thing fights you.
But I can’t stop. Every time I walk into that workshop and see that half-finished bench, I remember why I started. It’s more than just wood and nails to me. So yeah, 40/70. It’s where I am. It’s slow, it’s frustrating, but I’m still at it. One stubborn piece of wood, one rusty bolt at a time. Gotta get to 70.
