I sometimes look back on the things I did in my youth with amazement. When I was in my late teens I installed an attic fan for the owner of the house I was living in while he was away. As in, climbed up on the roof (which was three stories above grade in the back), cut a hole in it, mounted the fan, and wired it to a switch in a closet below. (I knew nothing about electrical code then and I seem to recall that I used lamp cord, not romex.)
I have no idea what made me think I could do it, other than blissful teenage ignorance. I don’t recall whose tools I used to cut the hole, or even why we thought it was necessary in the first place. My mother has had an identical house on the same street since 1969 and hasn’t had one installed.
But I did it, it worked, and the house hasn’t burnt down. Although I hope someone along the way has wired it up properly.
I might have been willing to do that kind of job in my twenties, thirties, forties, or even early fifties. But at 67, I would no more consider attempting it than I would flap my arms and fly.