It’s Friday night. The work week is fully complete, my work phone has been shut off, and my computer rests for the first time since 7 a.m. that Monday morning. After an evening cooking, relaxing with the family and getting my daughter nestled into bed after reading the three obligatory books, I sit alone at the kitchen table. The lighting is better here than my workbench in an alcove of the garage, which is my fault considering I’ve forgotten to change out that faulty light fixture for weeks.

To my right, decals are spread out, carefully cut from a fresh X-ACTO blade. That same blade, along with a pair of tweezers that look as if they were swiped from an eatery with a Michelin star, are positioned at the ready adjacent to the waterslides. To my left, a porcelain ramequin is filled with warm water. Even in a container designed to keep French onion soup burbling-hot until it can be fully consumed, this warm water will go cold before the work is complete, so at least one or two refreshes will be required. Also within reach of my left hand are several paper towels, and invariably, a beer or hard seltzer of some variety. I’m not picky. This drink, like the warm water, will need to be refreshed a few times during this session. There are a few more chilling in the nearby fridge, ready to be called into action.

Directly in front of me is a painted diecast.

The previous weekend it was adorned with sponsors, numbers, an entirely different livery and sported its “glass,” i.e. clear plastic windows, a spoiler and other plastic items that were removed along with the chassis. Once the body lay bare, it was sprayed with Aircraft remover, its pungency seemingly burning the hairs in my nostrils. This stage is always a mystery. Will the paint be released from the metal body with a slight swipe, or will portions of it cling to the otherwise naked body, refusing to be lifted even with another coat, scraping with various tools and every grit sandpaper I have available? I hate this part, the stripping of paint, but once this pungent, often frustrating step is complete — after more serious scrubbing to eliminate any remnants of Aircraft remover that will immediately render the upcoming paint job useless, thereby requiring I start the entire paint removal process over again — comes my favorite tasks. The bare metal will be primed and painted, eliminating the lifeless gray color of the stripped body. A few coats are applied, and after several days of drying, it takes its position in front of me on this Friday night. It’s balanced slightly on its side, resting on a small plastic bowl — one that gets almost daily use filled with cereal, grapes or nuts from which my daughter snacks — that happens to be the perfect size to angle the diecast upwards, securely, without impeding on the areas of the body soon to be decal-ed.

Behind the perched and painted diecast is my personal laptop. On the screen is a Truck Series race, or, if they have that night off, a bit of mindless TV, something I’ve likely seen dozens of times, like American Dad. My attention for the next 60 to 90 minutes will be on the diecast, but while the decals are wetted or my hands need a momentary break from trying to affix a decal only slightly larger than a pinhead to the exact right spot, I’ll check in. The immersion is there constantly, though, as my headphones will be filling my ears with the audio of the race commentators or the already-heard jokes that still elicit a chuckle.

This is my happy place.

I’m in my own little world, watching this cast piece of painted metal becoming a racecar as each decal is applied and wiped clear of any excess warm water that helps me position it just so.

That’s not to say the process isn’t without frustration. There might be large decals that refuse to align properly. Maybe I applied too much water and now I can’t move the car a nanometer without the decal shifting position. Or, I didn’t apply enough, and now must gingerly remove the decal, biting my lip in the hopes it doesn’t tear, to try and get it in the right spot. Worse, the decals could not have been sized properly, and now there’s a gap between two decals exposing the paint, and the amateurishness of the custom, below.

But after a week of working, parenting and all the daily stresses of normal life, these are minor inconveniences. I’m still happy.

My wife usually comes into the kitchen at some point in the process to retrieve a drink or maybe a make herself a bowl of ice cream now that my daughter is snoozing away and she won’t have to share her pricey ice cream with a six-year-old that doesn’t have the tasting acuity to discern between genuine vanilla and vanillin sourced from pine bark. Off come my headphones and we’ll talk for a few minutes. I’ll usually make some complaint about a decal being a pain to work with or how I’ve wanted to make this custom for a while and am loving to see it come to life. While listening, she’ll give me that slight smile and head nodding which indicates no interest whatsoever in what I’m doing, other than we love one another and so she is somewhat interested because this kind of thing pleases me. It’s the same reaction I give to her when she outlines a major plot point or character from the fantasy book she’s reading even though I have no interest in this book or the entire fantasy genre, for that matter.

The diecast rotates on his plastic bowl perch, always from the driver’s side, then to the rear, around to the “passenger” side and the front fascia for the decals to be applied. Always saved for the last is the roof number, the figurative cherry on top, that marks the end of the decaling session. I’ll take a few sips of my drink, usually the second or third by this point, and admire my handiwork.

My customs are never perfect. Far from it. I’ve seen the work of great model and diecast custom makers, and they put mine to shame. The decals on these customs look as if they’ve been painted on to the body by a robot. Meanwhile, you can see a distinct line where painted body meets the now-not-so-suddenly-precise handiwork of my X-ACTO knife. There are likely other flaws, those areas of “wrap” that didn’t align perfectly, or that the decal on the driver’s side C-pillar is slightly lower than the matching decal on the other side, or that a door number is slightly askew.

Things won’t necessarily improve when, after sealing the diecast sometime in the following days, I put it all back together. The rear spoiler might not sit down perfectly even, or maybe the shark-fin won’t be on the rear decklid because, while trying to remove it, I broke it into three unfixable pieces.

These flaws will bother me, but in no way will they deter me from making another. I’m never going to sell this, I tell myself, and the only eyes that will see them, besides my own, are those on the NASCAR Collectors Reddit page where I’ll share a single photo of hours of dedication to this single 1/24 scale. Yes, I’ll be genuinely excited when I get nice comments and upvotes on my custom, but that dopamine rush can’t compare to what I felt on that previous Friday night in my happy place.

That’s why once one Friday’s custom is complete and placed in one of my displays, I’ll prime a new X-ACTO blade and get ready for the next one.

Making custom diecast is not necessarily an admirable hobby like volunteering at food pantries. Nor is it necessarily a popular, affordable or easy hobby. I even make self-deprecating jokes on my personal Instagram, posting a photo of my custom in progress with a caption about how I’m having another “raucous” or “rowdy” Friday night.

Yet, making custom diecasts gives me joy. And isn’t that what we want, above all else, in how we choose to spend our time?