You paid for it, you should be comfortable in it

A friend of mine bought a Tesla Roadster back in the early 2010s. At the time, spotting a Tesla on the road was a rare event. Maybe even occasion enough to stop and take a picture. I never got the chance to photograph one, let alone drive one, until I met this new friend recently. This was my chance to experience the car firsthand.

We walked to the parking structure to see it. As soon as he opened the door, something looked... off. On the outside, it was a pristine, six-figure roadster. But the inside looked completely custom. Not "custom" in the sense of a professional shop install, but more like the driver himself grabbed a hammer and chisel and made it his own.

First, the driver's seat had been altered. It was much lower than usual and didn't match the passenger seat. My friend stands 6'7", and the Roadster is a tiny car. He physically couldn't fit, so he modified the seat rails to lower it. But that fix created a new problem: the door armrest now dug into his hip. So, he took a file to the interior panel, shaved it down, and 3D printed a smaller, ergonomic armrest. He even 3D printed a cup holder for the passenger side so his coffee was within reach.

To me, the idea of taking a Dremel or a file to a $100,000+ car was unimaginable. You must be crazy to do it.

He caught the look on my face and shrugged. "Hey, it's my car. I paid for it. I intend to be comfortable in it."

I never thought of it like this. That sentiment stuck with me. Recently when I read an article by Kent Walters about filing the corners of his MacBook, those same feelings resurfaced. My work MacBook has edges so sharp that I've often felt like I was slicing my wrist on the chassis. I treated this as a design flaw I had to endure. But not Kent. He treated it as an obstacle to be removed. He literally filed down the corners of his laptop to ensure the machine he uses every day was comfortable.

I may not have the guts to file my work issued MacBook, but I'm no stranger to customization... in software. I modify my tools constantly. I spend days tweaking my IDE, remapping keyboard shortcuts, and writing custom scripts until the software is unrecognizable to anyone else on my team. I don't think twice about rewriting a config file to make the tool fit my brain.

When I was a kid, I always had a screw driver around, fixing a device that wasn't really broken. On the home computer, I modified everything. I once deleted all .ini files to improve performance. It didn't work, but it led to a fruitful career.

But somehow, when it comes to expensive hardware now, I freeze. I treat the physical object as a museum piece to be preserved. I bought a docking station to banish the laptop to a shelf, using an external mouse and keyboard to avoid touching the sharp chassis. I built a complex workaround to accommodate the tool, rather than performing the simple, brutal act of modifying the tool to accommodate me.

We treat our physical tools as if they are on loan from the manufacturer.

You'll see a musician buying a vintage guitar but refuses to adjust the action, terrified of ruining the "collector's value." Meanwhile, the working guitarist has sanded down the neck and covered it in stickers because it feels better in their hand. The software engineer accepts the default keybindings to avoid "bad habits," while the power user creates a layout that doubles their speed.

If you own a tool, whether it's a car, a computer, or a line of code, you own the right to change it. The manufacturer designed it for the "average" user, but you are a specific human with specific needs.

Remember grandma's couch in the living room? It had that plastic cover on it. It was so uncomfortable, but no one dared to remove it. The plastic was to preserve the sofa. No one got to enjoy it, instead everyone accommodated the couch only to preserve its value. A value that one ever benefits from. Don't let the perceived value of an object stop you from making it truly yours. A tool with battle scars is a tool that is loved.

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