Can't Get Enough of that Grass
Allow me to paint your mind a visual....with my words.
It's early Saturday morning. Too early, really. The sun has just begun blasting its light into your room. Yet instead of hauling that comforter over your head you gaze towards your window and feel a hot rush of excitement at the prospect of what lies beyond. No. Not the game. Not that your wife promised flapjacks for breakfast. Hell, not even the mere fact that it's the weekend. What's got your giblets jumping is a far greater event.
Your lawn. It's out there and it needs a solid trim. You feel that tingle of anxiety ripple up your spine again. Did an angel just get its wings? Nope. You just got a boner because you're about to manicure that grass with such precision that only a king would be fit to walk among its blades.
I'm a man. And as such I don't claim to know much but I can tell you one thing with deadly certainty. I LOVE MOWING MY LAWN. I can't explain where the seeds of passion lay root but it's somewhere deep within my soul.
I love everything about the entire process. Rolling out of bed. Throwing on my ratty jeans and beat up Schoolhouse Rock t-shirt. Floating downstairs to fix up some coffee while I psych myself up for the one and only household chore I embrace completing. I'm a soldier going to battle. And what better war to wage than the one you know you'll win every single time?
I've also got to have my music by my side. The mower's loud so my playlist is usually chock full of Rage Against the Machine or Creed....HAHA! Just joshin' ya. No Creed is ever played. But I'm jammin'....cause I'm cuttin'. And so after all of my pregame rituals the moment has finally come. There I stand. At the edge of greatness. With a sweet patch of green laid out in front of me and nothing but the heat of a steadily rising sun at my back. Prime. Pull. Let 'er rip. I'm off to the races.
Now, every man has their weapon of choice. Some veterans still prefer the old reel mower (see above). Some go the electric mower route and we call those individuals douche bags. Some go with the riding mower if they're lazy or have a yard the size of Comerica Park. Me? I prefer the gas-powered push mower. I need to be moving and I want my feet to be the first thing that step onto my freshly cut grass. And dammit, my mower works for me so I sure as shit better be willing to break a sweat for all of its efforts.
While we're rifling through the assortment of different mowers let's throw a quick jab at all those inconsiderate assholes who DON'T mow their lawns. Gargoyles. If you don't mow your own lawn then you probably didn't like Field of Dreams. And if you have no idea what I'm talking about then I'd say I've proven my point. My your lawn you goober. Most of our culprits in this arena are the wealthy. Am I jealous of their riches? Hardly. I don't care if your yard is massive. You've got the cash. Haul your sorry ass to the local equipment depot and buy the latest and greatest. You can afford it. Just don't expect me to be sorry if/when said mower runs you over. However, what you CAN expect is for me to be mowing the cemetery grounds during your funeral. Alright, let's shift from the morbid. This article is for MEN anyways.
As I methodically work my way up and down each row I am a picture of steel concentration. My body and mind are one. I've been waiting a grueling six days for this moment. I will not falter. MacGyver has nothing on me. Yet just as his skills are required for diffusing a bomb to ensure another episode, my skills are demanded to guarantee another week of grass cutting.
Mission accomplished. Order has been restored. My lawn now looks about as neat and clean as Katy Perry's landing strip, assuming she's into the pubic mound art. I mean, when I wrap up a solid mow session I'm half tempted to call the United State Bocce Federation (yes, it's real) and suggest that they host this year's Bocce Ball Championships at my house!
Ah, law mowing. A not-so-simple pleasure of man. And ladies, I cannot and will not apologize for leaving you out of this equation for this truly is a man's job. Say what you will. Light off as many feminist fireworks as you want. Leave the lawn to the brawn. It's not that I don't think you can handle it. Sure you can. But I don't want you to. This is MY arena. As the Beatles so beautifully crooned....let it be.
And gents, let your lawns flourish. Prime them to catch the eye of every neighbor on the block. And after all is said and done and it's time to put the old beast back into hibernation for another week make sure you give it a hearty pat on the proverbial back. Treat him to some fresh oil. Maybe top off the tank. Your mower earned it and you two were meant to be together.