Chapter 1: A Guidance Counselor's Perspective

The guidance counselor adjusted his glasses and focused intently on the documents spread out before him. I sat nervously beside my mother, anticipating the results of my career aptitude test. It was my sophomore year in high school, back on Long Island in the early '90s. While these results weren’t as critical as SAT scores, they promised a revealing look at my abilities and shortcomings as a learner—and, by extension, as an individual.

After a moment, the counselor looked up, chuckling softly. “He’ll be fine as long as he doesn’t build bridges,” he remarked. This comment summarized my future career options. He explained that I excelled in reading comprehension, logic, and inductive reasoning, but my scores in mechanical reasoning and spatial relations were alarmingly low—one at the 23rd percentile and the other at a mere 17th percentile. Thus, when he referenced bridges, he was speaking quite literally. Pursuing a hands-on career or one that required design skills, according to the tests and the counselor, would be ill-advised.

It’s an odd experience to hear someone casually discuss your weaknesses. Is there a specific term for a guidance counselor with poor interpersonal skills? Yet, to be fair, his words reminded me of an eighth-grade technology project where we constructed bridges using popsicle sticks, competing to see which could hold the most weight. My classmates built sturdy bridges with precisely cut angles and strong supports, while mine didn’t survive the bus ride to school. The usual bumps and jolts dislodged my popsicle sticks from the Play-Doh that held them together—an unfortunate choice, as I struggled to master the hot glue gun.

After the counselor finished sharing my test results, my mother and I exchanged uncertain glances. What do we say now? Thank you?

My father planted the seeds of my ongoing struggles with practical tasks. Whenever a problem arose that required more than one tool—say, a wrench, pliers, and a hammer—he would call our neighbor Bob, a handyman who made every job seem straightforward. A wobbly light fixture? Call Bob. A warped door frame? Call Bob. A perpetually running toilet? Call Bob.

Though my father sought help, it meant I never learned how to tackle problems with my hands. I lacked the confidence that comes from gradually mastering a building project. Unlike many parents, my mother and father never encouraged me to develop fine motor skills or spatial awareness by buying LEGO sets; instead, I became quite adept at playing Frogger on my Atari. Sadly, navigating animated frogs across traffic didn’t quite prepare me for real-world challenges.

It's disheartening to navigate life aware of your limitations, especially knowing that statistically, 80 to 90 percent of your peers can do things you struggle with—like peeling an orange. Everyday tasks can be problematic. My college roommate often intercepted food packages before I could attempt to open them, weary of my struggle with cereal boxes or milk cartons. After one particularly disastrous attempt, he even duct-taped a carton back together to illustrate my need for care.

When faced with instructions to “bend and peel” or “fold and pull,” I would inevitably give up after several failed attempts, resorting to scissors instead. I have a knack for breaking things; during the CD era, I often managed to crack jewel cases or scratch discs while removing them. It’s remarkable I haven’t injured myself or others during my DIY mishaps.

On one occasion, while attempting to assemble a supposedly easy water bottle holder for my kitchen, I sent jagged pieces flying past my daughter and mother. I quickly abandoned the project, opting instead to shove water bottles into drawers.

In moments of frustration, I’ve screamed and cried, berating myself with thoughts like, “You can’t fix anything, you fool.” Ironically, that voice sounds much like my high school guidance counselor.

Fortunately, I do possess other strengths. If someone in my family needs help negotiating with an insurance company, they know who to call. Colleagues often ask me to review their drafts. As a former lawyer, I still assist those around me in dealing with unscrupulous landlords. I once spent hours diplomatically persuading a landlord to return a security deposit following my brother-in-law's mother’s passing: “I understand it’s unfortunate that you’ll need to find a new tenant.”

Yet, I often wish I could master the art of installing my son’s car seat. If only someone would create a “Baby Seat Installation Guide for Dummies.”

The most challenging aspect of my shortcomings is that others often doubt my struggles with tasks they find easy. During a work event, we needed to attach name tags to gift bags. As my colleagues swiftly completed the task, my tags kept falling off. When a coworker asked, “What’s going on with you, Brad?” I simply replied, “I can’t do it.” He tried to demonstrate, but I couldn’t grasp it.

Instead of attempting to learn the knot-tying technique, I suggested we swap tasks: “I’ll handle your next letter if you finish this.” Problem solved—at least temporarily.

I’ve spent my life bargaining around confronting my limitations. If I had struggled with reading or writing, I hope my teachers would have collaborated with my parents to create a supportive plan. Thankfully, that wasn’t the case.

Yet, when I was the only student in seventh-grade art class unable to use lines and angles to add dimension to my name drawing, someone could have stepped in to help. Instead, I was assigned “extra help,” which meant spending hours after school creating a subpar version of what my classmates accomplished in one class period.

So, I extend my gratitude to YouTube for filling the void that no one else addressed during my first three decades. The availability of how-to videos is comforting—apparently, I’m not alone in my lack of knowledge regarding oiling a bicycle chain. I happily click “like” on these videos, especially when the presenters explain things in simple terms, like differentiating between flathead and Phillips screwdrivers.

I’m proud to have made some progress with my mechanical and spatial challenges over the years. Having children has forced me to confront tasks I would otherwise avoid, such as assembling a VTech Go! Go! Smart Wheels Rescue Tower Firehouse. Dear VTech, your assembly instructions were less than helpful.

Despite my efforts, making significant strides in this area at my age is a challenge. Perhaps a class could help?

My main priority is ensuring my children do not inherit my shortcomings. My 12-year-old daughter is a LEGO-building prodigy, capable of fixing things well enough to help me when I struggle with simple tasks, like securing the lid on the coffee grinder. "Dad, let me help you with that," she says. Bless you, child—more Apple Pay for you!

As for my 2-year-old son, time will tell. He has access to all his sister’s old toys and new ones. If you need assistance balancing Matchbox cars on a toy garbage truck with a mechanical arm, he’s your guy. But if that truck malfunctions and you need to file a warranty claim, I can definitely assist.

If you enjoyed this story, I invite you to subscribe for future tales. You can also explore more of my work at bradmsnyder.com.

In this episode of TV Guidance Counselor, Nick Chambers shares insights on navigating life’s challenges with humor and resilience.

The Career Venn Diagram episode illustrates the intersection of skills, interests, and opportunities, offering a humorous perspective on career paths.