Growing up, my brother and I had to mow our rather large front and backyards. We had a drawing (not drawn to scale) depicting his assigned plot, and mine, and we use to bicker, fight and scream over who didn't mow the inch separating our plotted chores. I can swear, even to this day, that my plot was unfairly larger than his.
I use to hate, hate, hate mowing the lawn: having to pull the cord 10 times to get it started until the cord frayed, filling it up with gas that make my hands stink, pushing its heavy carcass along the steep sides, developing calluses and then blisters from the intense shaking of the misaligned wheels, and walking in the heat and sun for hours - enough for some good ol' fashioned dehydration and violent headaches to set in. And of course, the exaggerated drama of complaining each and every week.
Well the ultimate irony is that I went to pick up a reel mower from a guy in Virginia who posted it on craigslist. By myself. My parents didn't even make me do it! And this machine doesn't even have a friggin' motor!
What's gotten into me? Have I (perish the thought) become mature?
I can't wait to have kids to inflict this nightmare on them...
3 comments:
For shame :) (referring to your closing statement :)
Ammo
Oh, that lawn mower! The cruelest of chores.
My brothers and I somehow split the lawn into three areas based not on size, but on the number of trees you had to avoid. The bigger the area, the fewer trees it had (the biggest only had 2). The DAY his last son left home, my dad hired a lawn service. So not fair.
Can't not mention that my verification word is "breste". Yep, giggling like a 12-year-old.
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