the table's tale

A few years ago, my mom gave me a really cute end table that sat in my storage room for about 2 years because it had been decoupaged with random restaurant menus. I think it's fair to say that I am a crafty person, and I enjoy a good project every now and again, so one day, I undecoupaged said table and painted it roughly 25 different ridiculous colors in a fit of crafting genius. Today I looked at said table, sitting in the corner of my room in all its hideous glory, and decided that I was going to make it presentable. I was going to make it look like something a grown-up might own. I was going to paint it red and distress it and make it look vintagey and awesome.

Such a good thought.

I took it to my friend's house who was going to help me. We sanded it, primed it, and got it all ready for its magical makeover. Once the primer had dried, I valiantly charged outside to get my craft on. And just as we flipped it over to begin, I kid you not, my cute little table promptly fell completely to pieces. No, but like, literally. See?

We hammered. We glued. We said swear words and [thankfully] resisted the urge to beat ourselves over the head with the legs of this stupid table that would not go back on no matter how hard we tried to make them. It was, to say the least, an epic fail. And I was so mad because this table has been in my room for a year, standing on all four legs and holding things on it even! So why, why oh why, am I so untalented and pitiful that I can't even make a basic wooden end table go back together again?!

I was telling my mom my sad tale, and here was her reply: "Oh, you know where that table came from right? [I didn't] Oh yeah, your Nana made that table herself from a kit. Probably 40 years ago? It's been on the back porch outside for years." 

ooooooof course it was.

The moral of the story is this: sometimes things fall spectacularly to pieces and it has absolutely nothing to do with me. A lot of times maybe it does, and that is another blog for another time. But sometimes tables that seem sturdy fall apart simply because they are super old and were handmade by my Nana and have been bearing the brunt of midwest weather for years and years, not because I am a pathetic crafts[wo]man. Sometimes things fall apart and there's not much to be done about it except decide what to do with all the pieces. Decide how to move forward. 

The remnants of my table will likely make roughly 10 new craft projects for me, and I love that so much. 

But it will never be a table again. And that just is what it is.