I have a problem with small kitchen appliances.

Not a serious problem. Nothing that requires an intervention or a court-appointed conservator. But enough of a problem that I recently opened a cabinet and was confronted by three air fryers, two immersion blenders, a panini press, and a device whose purpose I can no longer identify but which I distinctly remember being very excited to purchase.

And I regret none of it.

Because every single appliance represents an investment in becoming a better person.

Some people pursue personal growth through therapy, meditation, or volunteering. I prefer an approach involving 1,700 watts of cooking power and free two-day shipping.

Take my egg cooker.

Before purchasing it, I was the kind of man who occasionally ate scrambled eggs. A perfectly acceptable breakfast, but hardly the foundation of a meaningful life.

Then I discovered a $29 appliance capable of boiling seven eggs simultaneously.

Seven.

Without a pot.

I immediately envisioned a future in which I woke up early, exercised, prepared healthy breakfasts for my children, and sent them into the world fortified with protein and the knowledge that their father was a man who had his shit together.

The dog would also benefit. I wasn't entirely sure how, but she would.

I used the egg cooker twice.

The first time, the eggs were undercooked. The second time, I couldn't find the little plastic cup that measures the water. Apparently, this cup is essential to the entire operation, despite the fact that humanity successfully boiled eggs for thousands of years without one.

It's still in my cabinet, awaiting the day I become the man I purchased it to be.

Then there's the air fryer.

I own several, because each represents a distinct era in my culinary evolution.

The first was a basic model. It promised crispy food with less oil, which seemed like a reasonable way to improve my health without making any meaningful lifestyle changes.

The second had a larger basket, allowing me to prepare healthier meals for more people.

The third had two baskets, allowing me to cook two different healthy foods simultaneously, theoretically doubling the rate at which I could improve my life.

At this point, my kitchen had the air-frying capacity of a mid-sized Buffalo Wild Wings.

But I was still ordering wings from Buffalo Wild Wings.

The problem, I eventually realized, wasn't the air fryer.

It was that I needed a better air fryer.

Preferably one with seventeen cooking functions and an app.

Which brings me to my latest acquisition: a countertop oven that claims to replace approximately 248 separate kitchen appliances.

It air fries. It bakes. It broils. It dehydrates. It roasts. It toasts. It proofs bread. It probably negotiates with hostage takers.

It also has a QR code.

I love a QR code on a kitchen appliance because it suggests the manufacturer has anticipated that cooking a chicken breast will require downloading software.

Gone are the days of simply putting food in an oven and waiting until it stops being raw.

Now I can scan a code, create an account, verify my email address, agree to a privacy policy, download a firmware update, and finally discover that the recommended temperature for cooking a chicken breast is 375 degrees.

Innovation.

Of course, I haven't actually used most of these features yet. I'm still familiarizing myself with the ecosystem.

A phrase that sounds considerably better than "I haven't read the instructions."

And the appliances keep coming.

I have a milk frother because I once imagined myself becoming the kind of sophisticated person who prepares café-quality beverages at home. I pictured leisurely mornings, perfectly steamed milk, and perhaps a little leaf design floating on my cappuccino.

What I actually have is a $60 device that occasionally makes lukewarm foam and a recurring Starbucks charge.

I own a panini press because I believed grilled sandwiches could fundamentally change the way my family experiences lunch.

I have multiple chopping gadgets because apparently the greatest obstacle preventing me from eating vegetables was the physical act of using a knife.

One of them promises to dice an entire onion in seconds.

Technically, it does.

It then requires approximately 14 minutes to disassemble, clean, dry, and put away, which is why I now purchase pre-chopped onions.

I've considered buying a food processor to address this issue.

And here's the beautiful part.

Every time I buy a new appliance, I experience a brief but intoxicating vision of the person I'm about to become.

I see myself preparing fresh meals. Packing healthy lunches. Hosting dinner parties where friends marvel at my effortless culinary abilities.

I imagine my children telling their friends, "My dad makes the most incredible homemade meals."

I imagine my dog looking up at me with a profound sense of gratitude, recognizing that her nutritional needs are being managed by a man with both a slow cooker and a Bluetooth-enabled meat thermometer.

I see all of it.

And for about 48 hours after the package arrives, that future feels entirely possible.

Then I order DoorDash.

The other night, while browsing kitchen appliances online, I came across a device that makes homemade ice cream in a matter of minutes.

Naturally, I was intrigued.

Not because I particularly need homemade ice cream. I live within driving distance of several excellent ice cream establishments.

But because I began imagining myself as a man who makes homemade ice cream.

Do you understand the distinction?

A man who buys ice cream is just a man.

A man who makes ice cream is a father creating memories.

He's a host. A craftsman. A wholesome individual who probably owns linen napkins and knows what to do with fresh mint.

For $199, I could become that man.

Or at least own the machine he would use.

I've started to recognize a pattern.

I'm not actually buying kitchen appliances.

I'm buying the possibility of becoming the person who uses them.

And there is apparently no limit to how much I'm willing to spend on that possibility.

I've spent years building businesses, working with entrepreneurs, and talking about the importance of focus, execution, and getting better at something through practice.

I understand, intellectually, that becoming good at something requires repetition, commitment, and occasionally doing the boring stuff.

And yet, when confronted with a countertop appliance capable of making eight different types of waffles, I immediately abandon everything I know about human development.

Because this time will be different.

This time, the technology has finally caught up with my potential.

Somewhere in my kitchen sits an ordinary frying pan.

It has no Bluetooth connectivity. No QR code. No companion app. It doesn't even have a digital display.

With enough practice, I could probably learn to make dozens of wonderful meals using that one pan.

But that sounds hard.

And I've just discovered a device that makes restaurant-quality quesadillas in under four minutes.

It has removable dishwasher-safe plates.

Surely you can understand why I have to buy it.

After all, I'm just one appliance away from becoming the person I've always wanted to be.

And tonight, to celebrate that possibility, I'm ordering Thai food.