Paint it Blue

I read somewhere that the Wilco song "Spiders (Kidsmoke)" is what a panic attack sounds like inside your head. I'd have to agree, except the song should be about three hours long.

My first panic attack was in early 2009. I was driving to work at Popular Woodworking Magazine in the pitch-black rain. Those days I was up at 5:45 a.m. On the road by 7 a.m. And working by 7:30.

That day I needed to paint a dry sink, the cover photo for the Spring 2009 issue of Woodworking Magazine. The whole thing had been a real cock-up. Despite all the design work I'd done beforehand, the dry sink looked awkward in the overall. Despite the gorgeous clear sugar pine I had scored for the project, the color of the boards was mismatched on the front of the chest. And despite it being a simple project (joinery-wise), I was tardy. I had to finish the dry sink on the same day we had scheduled a photographer to shoot the cover photo.

On the passenger's seat of my car was a box filled with supplies. Blue acrylic paint that would cover the mismatched pine. Paint rollers. Some small brushes.

Calculus: If I got the first coat on before 9 a.m. I could put the second coat on after lunch. Then it would be ready to shoot about 3 p.m. This, I thought, could work.

I drove past the Dana Avenue exit on Interstate 71 North, and that's when the glitter became electrified. It started as a low-voltage current throughout my body. It increased slowly until every pore on my skin had been opened, and I was floating in a vat of rubbing alcohol.

I remember gripping the steering wheel, hearing static and then not much else.

I had made the round-trip drive to work more than 6,500 times (honestly) since I had started at the magazine. So I think some sort of basal ganglia/lizard brain donned a captain's hat and steered me to the parking lot at F+W Media/Communications/Community (or whatever the hell they were calling it that week).

The next thing I remember is rolling the blue paint onto the dry sink, covering the perfectly clear pine. Glen Huey, one of the other editors, asked me some questions about why the *&%$ I was painting over such good wood.

I have no idea what I said.

Every stroke with the roller and the brush seemed to reduce the electric noise. And sometime about noon I can remember the panic attack simply dissipating. Gone in seconds. It was like the first time I ever took Tylenol (in college) and felt a headache miraculously disappear. (My father didn't believe in "masking symptoms" with drugs when we were kids.)

By the time I went home at 4:30 p.m. I was back to baseline. That night, after we got the kids to bed, I told Lucy what had happened that day.

"I think this job might be trying to kill me," I told her.

There were a lot more steps to take before I could quit my job in 2011. I had to write a book. My uncle had to die. And I had to make a phone call from the Shell gas station in Berea, Kentucky.

But on that day in 2009 I changed direction ever so slightly (thank you, lizard-brain captain). And that tiny shift was enough to prevent me from ever having another panic attack.

And to never be afraid of painting over perfectly good wood.

P.S. Painting is an integral part of "The American Peasant" and will be covered in great detail. Here's some practical woodworking content to offset the dimestore therapy above. If you ever want to start experimenting with painting your furniture projects, here is what I recommend: General Finishes Milk Paint. It's not milk paint; it's an acrylic. I suspect they call it milk paint for purely marketing reasons. But it is good stuff. It lays out beautifully – much better than most latex paints.

Apply it using a brush (a 2" synthetic) or a small roller or an HVLP system. After you apply the first coat, let it dry completely then sand it with #320 sanding sponges. We use the 3M ones. We use a blocky one for flat surfaces. And a thin one for curves and tight spaces. Then apply a second coat. That usually is enough, though sometimes you might need to do a little touch-up here and there.