53

My husband and I grew up in the same town, Wheeling WV, and we shared a loyalty to the place. So when I proposed to buy some run-down buildings along the riverfront and restore and rehab them, he agreed. I moved to Wheeling, bought a handful of buildings all within a block of each other, and put together subcontractors. I worked at it every day all day, and every night I called my husband in Philadelphia and went over my problems.

“There’s a hole in a third floor bathroom and it’s raining water into the apartment below. Now the tenants want me to replace their sofa.”

“The basement floor is wood over dirt and it’s rotten. Rats, too. Replace it? Or pour a concrete floor?”

“I went to collect rent and the tenant’s two pitbulls bit me.”

Every other weekend my husband drove to Wheeling and we walked through the construction sites. He drew up plans for whatever needed a permit. I put my interior design skills to work for the only client who ever listened to me: me.

It took five years to complete the whole project and I came home just in time for the Great Recession. But in my 53rd year – about Year 2 of the 5 year project -- I was about as deep into the project as could be and there was no end in sight. Not one of the six buildings was finished. I was scared to death.

It was a Do-or-Die situation, a Hail-Mary career move, a Nobody-But-Yourself-To-Blame moment of truth. My husband never panicked, never second-guessed me, never let weariness creep into his voice as we talked through every construction agony over the phone.

But I think the most important lesson I learned is that this is what young men went through when they were starting out, when they had a young family and an entry-level job and no collateral but chutzpah to borrow on. I always thought they were blessed with having an adoring wife to cheer them on, but suddenly I wasn’t so sure.

I didn’t have knowledge and expertise to share with my 30-year-old husband. I didn’t walk through the jobsite every weekend and come up with work-arounds. I didn’t have perspective on unruly subs and employees who stole from the boss. My 57-year-old husband gave me a lot more support than I as a 27-year-old ever gave him.

Even more important than that lesson was this lesson: it’s not always easy to be a man, either. There is terrible pressure to succeed, to do well, to show accomplishment. And for a young man, there are those first few years when every day seems like boot camp in hell.

Yes, when it was done, I was proud of the work I did those years in Wheeling. But I was even prouder of my husband some three decades before. Today both young women and young men are tackling the entry-level jobs with equal energy and trepidation; may we workplace veterans keep in mind the stress they bear and remind them that it does get easier.