People are obsessed with DIY these days. Why? I am not sure but I’ve some idea on why they do it. For some, it’s a fun hobby. For others, it’s therapy, their way of unwinding, and relaxing. But for the rest of us? It’s a fast track to the ER and a drawer full of bandages we didn’t plan on needing.
Let’s begin with the enthusiasts—the folks who genuinely enjoy crawling around the floor, sanding, gluing, hammering, fixing. These are people who think spending a weekend elbow-deep in plaster dust is a “nice break.” They go to bed satisfied only if they’ve used a spirit level. You’ll find them in the garage at 3am, redoing a joint “because the angle was off by half a degree.” Honestly, I suspect they’d do open-heart surgery themselves if YouTube had a tutorial.
Then you’ve got the conscripts. These poor souls never asked for this life. They just wanted a nice home. But now, here they are, covered in sawdust and rage, halfway through tiling a backsplash they never wanted, working like angry bees, and if you so much as ask how it’s going, they’ll sting you with so many complaints you’ll need earplugs and a strong drink.
And of course, the budgeteers. The ones who look at the cost of a tradesman and decide, with the confidence of a drunken philosopher, “I’ll just do it myself.” These are the people you see loitering around Home Depot or Lowe’s, clutching a list, bugging the poor employees with questions like, “Why do screws come in so many flavors?” or “Why do nails have heads but no feet?” And the employees… oh, they smile on the outside, but inside they’re writing resignation letters with crayon.
Most of these budget-DIYers start off small. Painting, usually. Can’t be that hard, right? Slap some colour on the wall, give it a little roll, Bob’s your uncle. And yet… somehow, always, the end result looks like Picasso had a breakdown while blindfolded. Drips everywhere. Walls sweating like they’ve just run a half marathon. And without fail, the DIYer ends up absolutely covered in paint. I don’t know if it’s an accident or some bizarre instinct to camouflage themselves. You’re not blending in, Susan. You’re not camouflaged. You’re a hazard. “Blend in with the living room, maybe the wall won’t notice.”
Then there’s woodwork. And this is where optimism takes a nosedive. “Build a little bookshelf,” they say. “It’ll be fun,” they say. What you get is a structure that leans slightly, has exactly zero right angles, and may or may not collapse if you put a single book on it. Measure twice, cut once? Sure. But do you cut on the line? Before the line? After the line? No one knows. It’s like ancient runes—each tradesman has their own interpretation.
Plumbing. Oh, dear. Everyone thinks they can install a shower. “Righty-tighty, lefty-loosey”, easy, yeah? Then you get to this mysterious white tape. Teflon. Do you wrap it clockwise? Counterclockwise? How much do you use? Is there a ceremonial chant involved? Burn incense? Because every time I’ve seen someone try it, they end up with a geyser in the bathroom, their ceiling looks like it’s melting, and the haunting realization that drywall isn’t waterproof.
Tiling? Please. It sounds easy. Tile glue, tile, spacer, wait, grout, wipe. How hard could it be? Well, no matter how careful you are, the finished product looks like it was installed by a drunken raccoon while listening to heavy metal. Nothing lines up. Spacing’s off, the grout’s uneven. And there’s always one—just one—that sits slightly higher than the rest, taunting you forever.
Electric? This is where people wisely hesitate. As they should. You muck this up, and suddenly you’re doing the Macarena involuntarily. Fortunately, I actually know electricity. Studied it. Got a degree. But college never taught me how to navigate attics filled with insulation, nails, and creatures that should be in a zoo. Nor did they warn me about the spiders the size of your hand, or the wasps, or the one time I swear I locked eyes with a snake. We both screamed.
Gas, though? Absolutely not. No. That’s where the line is drawn. One mistake and you’re a barbecue. Hire a professional. A real one. Not a guy called “Big Mick” who shows up in flip-flops and tells you “don’t worry, I’ve done worse.” Worse? That’s not comforting, Mick.
And DIYers, bless ’em, come in all skill levels. Some are brilliant—genuinely impressive. The kind of people who could rebuild a carburetor while blindfolded. Others are… adequate. Like whoever built your first house. And some are absolutely shocking. I’ve seen doors that won’t close, floors that creak and shift like tectonic plates, and one washing machine that gave its owner a mild electric shock every time it was used. You haven’t known fear until you’ve done laundry while praying.
I’ll tell you about my shed— It all started with a noble goal: make it slightly bigger. Just a modest extension. A bit more space for tools, maybe a bench. How hard could it be?
Day One: While removing part of the old frame, I found a nail. With my hand. Not in the metaphorical, “oops” way, but literally embedded in my flesh like Excalibur. Off to the ER. Tetanus shot, bandage, minor humiliation.
Day Two: Back at it. Crouched down, lining up a floor panel. Stood up too fast and smashed the back of my head on a wooden shelf I forgot I’d installed years ago. It left a mark. Another trip to the ER. Same nurse. She looked at me like I was a recurring sitcom character.
Day Three: Climbing the ladder to fit the roof panel. It was windy. Ladder wobbled. I attempted a heroic save. Gravity disagreed, and won. Down I went. Bit of a sprain. More bruises. Back to the ER. The doctor gave me the look.
By day four, I had a punch card at the ER and they were giving me loyalty points. By now the receptionist had memorized my date of birth.
By the end of the week, I’d finished my masterpiece. It was a shed. It was upright. It had walls. It leaked slightly, and the door had to be coaxed shut with a gentle kick and a few swear words, but it was mine. So I thought, you know what? Let’s thank the kind folks at the hospital. I brought them an ice cream cake. Walked in smiling.
The nurse, without missing a beat, looked up and said, “What is it this time?”
I said, “Nothing. Just a thank you.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Good. Because your insurance called. They think you’ve moved into a war zone.”
And the worst part? After all of that—the bruises, the blood, the paint in places paint should never go—someone will come along, look at your project and say, “Huh. You should’ve just hired someone.”
Yes. Yes, I should have.
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