I hate mowing my hard. I hate it, I hate it, good god help me I hate it.
I know what I’m supposed to feel. I know what people say. They say that when you get you own yard that you will love it. That you will find peace and tranquility when you go out there and cut those weeds down. They say that you will feel a sense of accomplishment when you mow and tend to your own yard.
I’m am calling complete and total bullshit on that one.
I have mowed my fair share of yards, I know how this works. My dad had my brother and me mowing 3 acres when I was five. My wife didn’t believe this until I had my mother confirm it. I was 5 and mowing a football sized yard. It took my brother and I 3 days to finish it. It sucked.
We moved but the yard duties still fell to my brother and I. And I can’t blame my dad. I have no doubt that when I have a son and he gets old enough, his ass is going to be out there mowing the yard.
And he will have to do it the way I want it done. It won’t matter if there is an easier way. Because I am dad and this is the way dad wants it done. That was my father and I plan on getting some decent entertainment out of that. My father always had to have it done like he wanted to. But to the old man’s credit, once we learned, he never came out and checked again. We were free contractors and the yard got mowed every week.
We even opened a small neighborhood lawn service. I would walk around with my lawnmower, my buddy and brother with a couple of weed eaters and we would knock on doors. Who can say no to an honest young man trying to earn an honest wage? No one, I tell you.
We closed it down when one day I took a leak after filling up the mower with gas. I got some of the splashback of the gasoline on my hands right before I felt the call of nature. I have never felt worse pain than that gas hitting Mr. Talliwhacker. It was the first time I cried in years. So we quit and I have never loved doing my lawn since.
We bought our own house and I thought it would be different. I would take great care of my lawn. My neighbors would walk past and go “There is a handsome man with a handsome lawn, we should love him.” And they would. They would all want to be my friend, regaling in the stories of my greatness and I would advise them on how to get ride of that crab grass.
But I don’t know how to get ride of crab grass. And I have absolutely no desire what so ever to learn how to get ride of crab grass. And I don’t care what the benefits Bermuda grass has or Kentucky grass. And I would rather play piano with a monkey than talk about the nitrate concentration of my fertilizer. I just have no will what so ever. Judge me, I can take it.
I hate looking at my yard, right when I know it needs to get mowed. I tell my wife that I will get to it, that maybe tomorrow it will be ready. “Yup”, I’ll say “That grass needs to be cut, I’ll get on it this week.” What I’m really thinking is how long can I let this thing go before I actually have to mow it. 1 more day? How about 4, give me 4 days, come on baby, give Daddy a 4 day mow layover.
That 4 days will come down and then I’ll wonder if I can get another 2 days. I will make bargains with my grass. “Look, Mr Weed. Let’s work together. You don’t be to noticeable and I won’t bring down the thunder.” I try to work peace accords between the Gigantic Milkweed and my wife who wants it cut. It is the Middle East of my yard, each claiming ownership to same part of the yard but no one really wants to live there.
I hate that after all my cajoling and back room deals, I finally look at my yard and realize that now I’m embarrassing the neighbors. This is the only true reason that I ever mow my yard. Public humiliation, that is what motivates people the absolute best. I am worried that my Meth Head neighbors will accuse me of bringing down the property values and not for the hydroponics stash that I know they got brewing behind their gate.
My other neighbors are ok, so the yard gets mowed.
And the kicker is, it takes me less than an hour to mow and weed it. How lazy is that. I can’t spend less than an hour every 10 days to mow my yard. But my yard hates me and has utilized it’s vast empire to conquer me.
It has imported different factions of grass so that 1) I am driven insane because my grass doesn’t match like I am some wimp decorator 2) they grow at different rates so that only the front and side need to be mowed while the middle is a good 4 days away from mowing.
It harbors fugitive insects to attack me should I ever get uppity enough to actually mow. Wasps and hornets, ever year, decide to make a nest in our front tree. It’s usually right up top and right behind the thick foliage so that I can’t see it until I whack the tree and death from above comes raining down on me.
Of course I take this as a personal challenge to my manhood and I must do battle personally until the threat is eliminated. Out comes the bottle of wasp killer that can spray a good 40 yards. Unfortunately this also kills my grass so that my yard has these very fine lines of dead grass crisscrossing through it where a 32 year old man screamed like a little girl for 45 minutes. It is a testament to my hossness. But I kill them and kill them good. I am always victorious.
But it gives me PSTD so that everytime thereafter I mow under that tree my head is dodging and weaving while looking up. I know that they are dead, but I don’t trust my yard not to import some more. I no longer do a normal mow under the tree, but I run while the mowing occurs. I don’t care what the neighbors think of me, just go smoke your pot.
So I have finally taken that last step. That last step taken by Senior Citizens and divorced women. I hired the job out.
Let’s face it, I’m more in management that I am labor. I figure I have spent a good 27 years in the trenches and now it is time for me to retire. Hell, it’s only 25 bucks every 10 days. That’s around 50 bucks a month. I’ll spend that on beer and wasp repellent.
I don’t care if this affects the vision that people have of me. I don’t care if people will whisper behind my back as they walk past my house: “There goes that handsome man who is to lazy to mow his yard.” The single moms in the neighborhood may shake their heads at me, giving me that thousand yard disappointment stare. I don’t care. I’m done. I’m out, make sure you tip your waitress.
This is the exact reason I went to college, in order to pay for someone to mow my yard.
It’s like the advice my Dad gave me growing up on if I should go to college or not:
Hossman, the world needs ditch diggers.