The wire brush catches on a fleck of lead paint, sending a dry, metallic flake onto my forearm. It is 11:37 PM, and the ‘O’ in a 1957 Rexall Drugs sign is proving to be a stubborn bastard. I’m leaning over the workbench, the smell of mineral spirits and old dust thick in my nose, trying to remember if I actually tightened the terminal screws on the transformer I installed at 4:17 PM. My hands are stained a permanent shade of charcoal, but my mind is three miles away, wondering if the dishwasher was ever started or if the wet clothes are currently souring in the machine like a neglected science experiment.
⚡ The Ticking Clock of Responsibility
That piercing, rhythmic chirp is the sound of a very specific kind of failure. I am the Keeper of the Batteries. I am the Auditor of the Expiration Dates. I am the Project Manager of a life I sometimes feel I’m only half-living.
We talk about chores as if they are discrete units of labor, like stacking bricks or sanding a sign. We say, ‘I did the dishes, so you should do the laundry.’ It sounds fair. It looks like a balanced ledger. But the ledger is a lie because it only tracks the physical execution of the task, not the 47 steps of cognitive processing that preceded it.
The Cognitive Load: The Silent Tax
The Mental Inventory (Invisible Labor)
Take the dinner trap. It’s a classic maneuver in the Chore War. She asks what I want for dinner… In that moment, even though she is technically ‘doing’ the cooking, I am still the one managing the logistics. I am the one who had to verify the inventory. I am the one who had to set the timeline. This is the invisible labor, the cognitive load that acts as a silent tax on our sanity.
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We argue about the dishes because it’s easier than admitting we’re drowning in the sheer volume of details required to keep a modern household from collapsing into chaos.
– Analysis of Domestic Friction
I’ve spent 27 years restoring signs. I know that if the internal wiring is frayed, it doesn’t matter how beautiful the porcelain enamel looks on the outside; eventually, the whole thing is going to short-circuit and catch fire. Relationships are the same. We focus on the surface-the visible distribution of chores-while the internal wiring of mental responsibility is sparking and smoking.
The Landmine: “What can I do to help?”
That word-help-is a landmine. When you ask to ‘help,’ you are inadvertently confirming that the responsibility belongs to someone else. You are positioning yourself as a volunteer or a junior assistant rather than a co-owner of the enterprise.
The Paradox of Control
But here is where I contradict myself, or perhaps where I admit my own culpability. I am a control freak. You don’t restore vintage neon signs if you aren’t obsessed with the minutiae. I like knowing where things are. I like having a system. And yet, I resent the system I’ve built because it requires me to be its constant caretaker. It’s a paradoxical trap. I want to let go, but I’m terrified that if I do, the 37 plates I’m spinning will all shatter at once.
I’ve found that when we bring in professionals to handle the heavy lifting, it clears the psychic space needed to actually enjoy each other’s company again. It allowed me to stop being a facilities manager and start being a husband again.
The Visible Price Tag of Invisible Work
Consumed by Logistics
Reclaimed for Craft
We need to stop pretending that invisible labor doesn’t have a visible price tag. It costs us our creativity, our patience, and our intimacy. I’ve spent the last 37 minutes thinking about this while I should have been focused on the Rexall sign. I’m tired of the noise. I’m tired of the mental tabs that stay open in my brain like a browser on the verge of crashing.
The question isn’t whether the chores will get done. The question is: what are we willing to give up to ensure we aren’t the ones who have to remember to do them?
If the sign on the wall is blinking, it’s telling you something. It’s telling you there’s a break in the circuit. You can keep patching it with electrical tape, or you can rewire the whole damn thing. I think I’m ready to stop patching. I’m ready to let someone else hold the ladder while I finally step down.