As everybody knows, the D-blog is no stranger to hard physical labor. He's worked in factories, on the farm, and even, during one of his earlier periods of gender confusion, as a milliner.
But refinishing floors kicks my ass every time. It's not so much the big drum sander you use for the wide-open spaces (though try carrying one up a flight of stairs); those are self-propelled, and while extremely awkward to maneuver, don't necessarily reduce one to a quivering hulk of hacking exhaustion.
No, it's the little disk sander, the one you use to sand around the edges of a room, that kills me. It weighs maybe 40 pounds, which doesn't sound like a lot, but to use it you have to stand bent nearly double, holding on for dear life while the disk rotates at 10,000 rpm (est.) and the thing threatens to rip itself out of your hands and run amuck like, like, I don't know, a mangler that's tasted human blood or something.
And you can't just hold on to the thing while it does the work. You have to use finesse to get the old finish off smoothly while not gouging big holes in your floor or foot or face, all while inhaling clouds of sawdust. I think I inhaled a couple 2x4's worth this go-round.
Oh well, bitching done. Now I'm on the easy part, puttin' down the Varathane. Good thing years of glue-sniffing has inured me to the fumes.
Update: A reader (yeah, sure) asks via e-mail: "Mr. D-blog, darling, why don't you just wear a mask over your fawn-like features to avoid inhaling that nasty sawdust?"
Dear reader: I do, but it doesn't seem to help much.