I hate mowing the lawn. I have seriously considered xeroscaping my whole yard simply to get myself out of this mundane mostly pointless task. A task placed upon in the true spirit of Adam and Eve. It is the curse place on me because my forefathers partook of the fruit. Our ancestors started this evil practice of growing fescue, bermuda, and rye hoping to be the envy of their neighbors.
All it has left us with is a yearning to walk out on lush greenness in our bare feet and the never ending burden of summer called mowing. We grow then mow then grow and mow. It is more annoying than hitting and chasing a golf ball.
I hate it so much that I avoid it at all costs. Every other week is all that I can muster. And sometimes I push it for a third week. Usually when I do that, the wife steps up and mows the lawn, but it bothers me when she does. She even did it once when she was 7 or 8 months pregnant. Yeah, I know. That’s terrible of me.
This weekend is lawn mowing time. And I don’t want to do it. Do I have any volunteers? Just come on over and mow my .2 acres of grass. If you take me up on this once in a lifetime opportunity then you can tell the world you had the priveledge to mow the law of the one and only modern day Gazelem. Any takers?
Yeah, I thought not.
Oh, well. So, if I am abnormally grumpy next week its because of my grass allergy. No, I am not medically allergic to grass. Just psychologically. It is my summer time nemesis. It is the thorn in my side. I can’t wait until October. And you can guarantee my last lawn mowing will be two weeks before everyone else’s.