Author’s Note: This is a rerun of a post that I wrote in 2012. As I am currently at BlogHer 2013…and have just recovered from a nasty rash…I thought it timely as well as necessary to repost. Enjoy.
Yeah. I’m a digging, weeding, perennial-planting, dirt-loving fool.
My groom counts himself as fortunate to have a lawn boy and bride all rolled into one unpaid package. He suggests that the lawn needs mowing? And I’m all, “Oooh, nooo! Puh-LEASE don’t throw me in that briar patch, Brer Groom!”
Then with, a giggle, off I traipse to my own little slice of Heaven.
So, this past Saturday, with the sun beating down and a gentle breeze rustling the poplars bordering our property, I was completely in my element as I made my way to the back yard to finish the mowing. Sassy thing that I am, I took off my tank top and finished the job in my swimsuit top and shorts. I felt alive. Strong. Dare I say…sexy.
*cue LMFAO’s latest hit*
Yes. I felt sexy in my Athleta swimsuit top and board shorts as I pushed the mower around the yard in a precise pattern of zig-zags, dodging dog-do when I came across a spot that I had missed during my pre-mowing scoop session.
But all sexy things must come to an end, friends.
For me? It happened when I finished the mowing, put the Toro away in the garage, and returned to the back yard with my groom’s weed whacker in hand.
Do any of you female friends know how to use a weed whacker?
Oh, stop gloating. Because the thing scares the living daylights out of me. But I wanted to finish the job, so I fiddled with the knobs on the handle until the machine roared to life.
And that? Was where the sexy evaporated. When I step out of myself for a moment and recall the ordeal from a third person perspective, my mind’s eye witnesses a scene that could best be compared to Seinfeld’s Cosmo Kramer guest starring in The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. That piece of machinery took my swimsuit-clad self on a wild goose chase around the perimeter of my yard that still gives me the shakes when I think about it. I shimmied my way around, power tool in hand, lopping off random sections of overgrown grass, as well as occasional clumps of daisies and moss roses when the whacker careened out of control.
My teeth chattered.
My knees knocked together.
There were parts of me jiggling that no one should have to see jiggling on a woman my age.
So I put the wretched power tool away, cussing under my breath, and decided to pull a few weeds instead.
Because, unlike weed whacking, weeding by hand is sexy.
*restart LMFAO soundtrack*
I weeded the Dickens out of my flower beds.
Two hours later, as I sat on my back patio, MGD 64 at my side, admiring my handiwork, I glanced down and noticed a smattering of teenytiny red bumps forming a semicircle just below my rib cage.
Mysterious gardening-induced allergic reactions are not sexy, friends.
And neither was the speed with which this reaction proceeded to spread across my entire torso, arms, and legs. Nor was how it crept up toward my face, threatening to squinch my eyeballs shut and leave me looking like something out of Mad Magazine – HGTV Edition.
Furthermore? A trip to the dermatologist and a prescription for rash-combatting oral steroids and oatmeal baths are not sexy either. Much like flesh-hiding cowboy boots and cardigan sweaters on a sweltering day in Chicagoland are unsexy.
So here I sit, in my boots and cardigan, at my kitchen table in front of my laptop, hopped up on oral steroids on a picture-perfect afternoon at the end of May.
Outside, the sun beams. Birds chirp. The yard beckons.
And I tell it to shut the flippin-flap up.