A few years ago, I was on a desperate search for a dining table. My favorite from my old place was a gorgeous, single-piece antique that mathematically wouldn’t fit in my new home. I loved that table, and losing it felt like losing a member of the family. So I started the hunt for a replacement, a piece worthy of its memory.
I found a potential candidate at a high-end furniture store: a stunning cherry table.
I ran my hand along its smooth, cool surface, picturing it loaded with platters of food, surrounded by the people I love. But then I saw the price tag. It was prohibitively expensive. My wallet slammed shut. I knew it was perfect, but I just couldn’t bring myself to pay for it. I walked out, resigning myself to a life of settling.
In the end, I found a mass-produced, joined-piece from a department store. And for the next six months, I was miserable. My kitchen table was just … a table. It was functional, but it had no soul. I griped about it constantly, and every time I looked at it, I was reminded of what I'd given up.
Discovering Sweat Equity
Finally, out of options and patience, I took the advice of an antique store owner.
"Go see a woodworker," she said.
I drove to the address, a dingy, dark garage on the southside of town that smelled of sawdust and varnish. Here, in this dusty, disorganized space, I found the most beautiful tables of every shape and size imaginable.
A gruff man with calloused hands appeared. I told him about my predicament and my budget. He gave me a direct response: “I can’t build you a table for that price.”
Just as I was giving him an obligatory thanks and turning to leave, he hit me with an unexpected question: “Are you interested in learning how to make one? It might cost you less than what I’ve already made.”
He wasn’t selling me a table. He was selling me an experience.
A partnership.
Becoming a Co-Creator
And so, we began. He showed me the design software. We walked through different scenarios, from Christmas dinner to my kids doing their homework. We chose the wood, figured out the curves for the legs, and decided on the thickness for the top. Every line was to my specifications. I was a co-creator, not a consumer.
When he finally showed me the quote for materials and his lessons, it was 30% more than the expensive showroom table. And yet, the decision was simple. I looked at the plans, the time we’d invested in the design, the conversations we had shared, and I said, "Let's build this."
I picked out the perfect piece of maple. He taught me how to cut it, sand it, and shape it. How to use a router to create decorative edges. How to apply gloss for a perfect shine. And when we were done, I paid that higher price gladly—despite all its imperfections (I am not a professional carpenter.).
This was my table, built with my sweat, crafted with my hands. I’d earned it.
One leg was a half-inch too short.
The decorative edges I’d spent hours on didn’t quite match. And the lacquer? Let’s just say it had a certain, unique texture. This table was, objectively, flawed. And yet, I loved it more than any piece of furniture I had ever owned.
When I brought it home, I was so proud. I invited people over just so I could show it off. Every time I looked at it, I found myself thinking how perfect it was, even with its flaws. That slightly askew table wasn’t just furniture; it was a blinding flash of the obvious and a lesson in the concept called The IKEA Effect.
Applying the Principle in Sales
Not long after my dive into woodworking, I found myself in a similar situation with a prospect.
We were selling a sales training program,
