Zane is blinking through a haze of surfactant-induced misery, trying to make sense of the third paragraph on his new employer’s internal portal. My own eyes are currently a vibrant, pulsating shade of crimson because I managed to dump a handful of eucalyptus shampoo directly into my face this morning. It is a blinding, chemical betrayal. But even through this watery, stinging veil, the words on the screen are more painful than the soap. The company-a firm that apparently manufactures industrial cooling valves-describes itself as a ‘pioneer in thermal equilibrium optimization through leveraged synergistic hardware-software integration.’ Zane has read this 19 times. He is 29 minutes into his first day. He still doesn’t know if he’s supposed to sell the valves, fix them, or pray to them.

The vibration of the tablet on the edge of the sink is the only thing keeping me from a total sensory meltdown. It is 11:32 PM on a Sunday. There is a fine, ghostly dust of pulverized drywall coating my eyelashes, and I am watching a 12-minute tutorial for the 42nd time. The man in the video has a beard that looks like it has never known the indignity of sweat, and he is smiling as he clicks a piece of luxury vinyl flooring into place with the effortless grace of a magician. Meanwhile, I am kneeling in a puddle of my own incompetence, staring at a gap in the corner that looks like a hungry mouth. My knees ache, my back feels like a stack of rusted gears, and I have just realized that I didn’t leave enough space for the expansion joint. I am a weekend warrior, and I am currently losing the war.

Yesterday, I was a god. I walked into the store with $152 in my pocket and a vision of a transformed guest bathroom. I was seduced by the promise of sweat equity-that romantic notion that if you just work hard enough, your labor can replace professional skill. It’s a lie we tell ourselves to justify our refusal to pay for expertise. We think we are being thrifty, but we are actually just gambling with our sanity. Stella H.,