It just happened. I noticed the nose hair trimmer section as I searched the aisles of Target for cinnamon dental floss. My boyfriend had mentioned he might need one a few weeks prior so it seemed like a logical purchase.  I compared the various nose hair trimmer brands that Target offered, pondering the strengths and weakness of each model’s efficiency and speed. Additionally, I went above and beyond by googling reviews of each model on my iphone. I lingered in the shaving supply aisle at Target for over twenty minutes reading about stranger’s personal experiences of pulling and trimming long and unruly nose hairs. Once I felt adequately educated on the product choice, I placed the winning black and silver box into my basket.

What makes this purchase more troubling in retrospect is that I gave it to my 33-year old boyfriend as a birthday present. I felt excited for him to unwrap the brand new nose hair trimmer. I honestly found nothing wrong with the offering until I saw his face the moment he opened the present. He pulled the bright green and blue tissue paper out of the oversized, glossy gift bag.  He grabbed the large box with shiny 49ers wrapping paper and grinned at me. Finally, he tore off the paper and excessive red ribbons I had tied onto the box.

Immediately, his excited facial expression morphed into a confused stare and then a slightly embarrassed but amused smile. It was at that moment I realized what I had done. Wow. I bought my 33-year old boyfriend a nose hair trimmer for his birthday. What had happened to me? When did the fun, flirty girlfriend turn into a practical partner concerned about noticeable nose hair? Where was the sexy and fun gift of massage oil or thoughtful tickets to his favorite band’s concert? I knew things had to change.

 

 

As a student, I would stop by my dad’s house during grueling study breaks to say hello. We would chat about how my college classes were going. Occasionally, my father would ask me to drive him to the bank. We would laugh and chitchat about college sports as we stood in the teller line, he would stroll up to the counter, make a transfer from his checking account to my checking account and then slowly push some cash the teller placed on the counter over to me.

At that point, my dad would proudly state that I was doing extremely well in school and on the brink of starting a successful career. The teller would usually grin and congratulate me on my academic success. I felt slightly embarrassed, blushed and smiled a bit before thanking the teller and cheerfully picking up the stack of cash my dad had pushed over to me on the counter. These bank trips were fun and hopeful.

That was sixteen years ago. I am now 43, overly educated but unemployed. Last week, I stopped my dad’s house to say hello. I was sitting at my dad’s house watching Price is Right with him as I often do now. He once again asked me to drive him to the bank.

We stood in line in silence, walked up to the counter, and my dad asked to transfer four hundred dollars to my account and withdraw a hundred dollars in cash. The teller was an older, well-dressed woman with bright red lipstick and silvery hair pulled up in an elegant bun.  She immediately greeted my dad by his first name and asked him how he has been lately. I started telling her my account number but she held up her hand to stop me.

“I know your account number. It is written in the notes. Your father is a very kind and generous man.” I smiled and nodded. (Awkward pause)

“He comes in to the bank frequently to transfer money….to your account.” (even more awkward pause).

I stretched out the uncomfortable and forced smile a little longer and nodded again. “Yeah….He is really great,” I muttered.

“So, here is the deposit from your father’s account to your account. How would you like the cash?”

I felt the entire bank go quiet and everyone turned their head to look at me. It was as if the smooth jazz music mix playing in the bank came to a screeching halt.  I felt everyone in the over air-conditioned bank stop talking to turn and look at the 43-year old daughter who was taking money from her father’s savings account.

“Uh, twenties is fine…Thanks.”

As a child, the dreaded challenging chore list loomed large in my world. My parents generously granted me a small weekly allowance that I used for essentials such as Slurpees, Super Big Gulps, and jumbo packs of Skittles and Starburst. If I wanted to make a luxury purchase, such as a Gap floral tank top or a Dr. Pepper Lip Smacker Lip Gloss, I needed more serious cash.  Those are the dreaded moments that I trudged begrudgingly to check out the challenging chore list.

The challenging chore list was drawn up monthly by my mom. Most of the time, my siblings and I would stay clear of the challenging chore list, averting our eyes as my mother happily announced its arrival. The simple sheet of lined notebook paper listed ten tasks to do around the house with a designated fee next to each job depending on its level of difficulty. She highlighted assignments such as cleaning out the sludge in the neglected roof gutters, scrubbing old water stains in toilet bowl, pulling excess hair and gunk out of shower drains, and sweeping out spider webs in the dark and dusty garage.

My mother spent about an hour at our kitchen table pondering, planning, and drafting the dreaded list of doom each month. She started out with a fresh, blank sheet of notebook paper and a black ballpoint pen. She stared intently into space, scrunching her eyes, and tilting her head to one side. It was as if she was searching for the most disgusting, demoralizing, burdensome tasks possible to be carried out by her children. Suddenly, a sinister grin slowly spread across her face and she began writing feverishly. Eventually, she proudly posted the list on our pale blue living room wall with an excessive amount of yellow masking tape.

When I got desperate enough for spending money, I checked out the challenging chore list. I scanned the index of horrors, searching for the easiest and fastest job. The actual dirty deeds felt painful enough but what made it worse was my mother’s passive-aggressive micromanagement. Once I reluctantly accepted one of the challenging chores, my mother felt compelled to earnestly evaluate each slimy stage of the task. She watched me as I completed the chore, noting areas where my scouring and scrubbing skills could improve. In the end, I received the stated fee after a final evaluation during which my mom stated, “Oh. You think that is clean enough? Hmm….okay.”

I am 43 now and my mother recently went on a vacation. She mentioned she needed her plants watered.  I said I would swing by her house and tend to her plants. She replied that she wanted to pay me to make sure I actually showed up and watered her plants correctly. “Plus”, she added, “You don’t have a job so you probably need the twenty bucks.”

A week later, I stopped by her house to water the plants. I found a piece of notebook paper waiting for me on the kitchen table with a list of ten tasks related to watering the plants. The list explained how to water each specific plant and which old flower pots I should dig out of the dark and dusty garage to scrub and rinse. Number 4 explained which heavy bags of soil I should move from the corner of the yard with the rusty wheelbarrow. Number 5 explained how to dig up snails and transport them to different areas of the yard. Number 8 stated that the grass around her plants required cutting so I might as well mow the lawn while I was there. As I stared at the long list in stunned silence, a text from my mother popped up on my phone. She had sent me a twenty minute instructional video she had filmed of herself watering her plants. She asked me to watch the video and then send daily text updates with photos of the plants.

I suddenly realized I was 43 years old and doing a challenging chore list for twenty bucks.  Nothing had changed. I was back in our pale blue living room staring at a piece of notebook paper taped to the wall. I sighed and texted my therapist to set up an extra session that week.

 

Welcome to my blog. My name is Ryan and I am 43 years old. Back when I was a little kid, I absolutely loved writing and even won a few writing contests. Creating new worlds and characters that made people laugh, wince, and grin felt amazing. Writing came naturally for me but I thought I should pursue a more stable career path like law. So, I pushed creative writing aside and focused on studying hard in every other academic subject throughout high school and college in order to get into law school. After completing law school, passing the California bar, working endless temporary jobs, and pursuing thousands of permanent job leads, I am 43 and unemployed.

One day while I was scanning the usual daily job postings on my computer, my tired eyes trailed up to a dusty shelf where my battered love of writing still remained. I decided to grab a chair and peer up at my old friend. Piles of spiral notebooks, yellowed sheets of papers, and some chewed up pencils laid under a thick layer of dust and cobwebs.

A small spider stared back at me from an intricate web in the corner of the shelf. The spider did not scamper off or even flinch after my head popped up to look at my old writing tools. The tiny spider just stared back at me, judging me for taking so long to return to my first love.  I paused for a few quiet moments and then picked up the dusty pile lovingly. If I don’t start writing at age 43, then when? So here goes…