What makes a thing worth fixing?

I was sanding down an old kitchen table yesterday, and it hit me — the legs were wobbly, but not broken. Just worn. I could’ve tightened them, sanded the joints, maybe even replaced one. But I didn’t. It’s not that I don’t know how. I just… didn’t want to. Not because it wasn’t worth it, but because something about leaving it as is felt honest. Like pretending it wasn’t tired. So now I’m wondering — when does fixing become a kind of lying? And what do we owe things that aren’t broken, just changed?