You know, people throw around this “fight love” idea like it’s some big, heroic battle. Most times, for me at least, it’s not like that. It’s quieter. More like a stubborn ache you just decide to live with, or work through, because the ‘love’ part, whatever that is, just won’t let you quit.
I learned this the hard way, with an old wooden chair. Sounds silly, right? Not a person, but an actual, beat-up chair. It was my grandad’s, see? Sat in the corner of the attic for ages, covered in dust and God knows what else. I figured, I’ll fix it up. A labor of love, I told myself. Hah.
Man, that thing fought me every step of the way. I started off all excited. Got myself some sandpaper, some stripper for the old varnish. Thought it’d be a weekend job. Wrong. That old varnish, it was like concrete. My arms ached for days just from sanding the first leg. Then I found a crack, a deep one, hidden under all that gunk. Had to learn how to fix that, watching blurry videos online, messing it up twice.
There were moments, plenty of ’em, where I just wanted to drag that chair out to the curb. Seriously. I’d be out in the garage, covered in dust, paint flecks in my hair, swearing at this inanimate object. What was the point? It was just a chair. My grandad was gone. Who was I even doing this for? My wife, she’d peek in, say “Still at it?” with that look, you know? The one that says “Are you crazy?”
- The stripping took forever, layer after ancient layer.
- Then the wood filler for that crack, it wouldn’t set right the first time.
- And choosing a new stain? Don’t get me started. So many options, I nearly just painted it black out of frustration.
But then, I’d remember him. Sitting in it, reading his paper. Or I’d run my hand over the wood, feeling the grain where my own hands had smoothed it down, finally. It wasn’t just a chair anymore. It was… a connection, I guess. That stubborn ‘love’ part, it would whisper, “Just a little more. You got this.”
So, I kept going. Bit by bit. One day, I finally put the last coat of wax on it. Stepped back. It wasn’t perfect. You could still see some of the scars, the history. But it was solid. It was beautiful, in its own way. And it was done. By me.
That whole mess, that’s my “fight love” story. No trumpets, no parades. Just a lot of sweat, a fair bit of cursing, and this quiet, stubborn refusal to give up on something, or someone, or even just a memory held in an old piece of wood. It’s not always a blaze of glory. Sometimes, it’s just showing up, day after day, for the fight, because of the love. And honestly, I wouldn’t trade that feeling, that battered old chair, for anything.
