Sweat Equity

It's a well-known fact that I don't like to sweat. That's my number one problem with exercising--the sweat. Being a lady of the South, I truly don't sweat that much--glistening is an apt description for what occurs when I am hot. But, I don't like glistening either. However, Dave is such a great helper in the house, that I'm beginning to feel guilty about him doing all of the yard work. (For the record, as long as we've had Mason, I have carried the title of "Pooper Scooper" with pride and dutifully performed my job. And, occasionally in the summer, I will help cut the grass.) Dave has taken upon himself the task of cleaning the hand-washable knives and cookware following meals. Additionally, whenever we clean the house, we clean together. The only area where he's a bit remiss is laundry, but all I have to do is ask, and he helps me put the laundry away. (It's the asking that's the rub, but that's another blog.)

Nonetheless, while I was on Spring Break last week, I decided to help Dave with the yard. After a light dinner on Wednesday night, we went out and started working. While Dave cut the front and side yards, I pulled weeds in the front flower bed and scooped the backyard. When Dave grabbed the weed-eater to edge the front yard, I got behind the mower and cut the backyard. He was able to get all of the edging done and everything blown off all in one evening with my help--usually he divides the task into two evenings. When we finished, we felt pride in a job well done. Dave even asked, "Could we pick Wednesday or Thursday nights to designate for yard work so we won't have to do this on the weekend?" Knowing that the exercise would be good and feeling that guilt at not helping outside, I readily agreed.

So, this week I'm back at work. I really didn't want to cut the grass Wednesday night, but I came home talking myself into it. Dave didn't want to cut the grass, either, so we delayed until Thursday. When I got home Thursday, I had even less desire to cut the grass. Dave got tied up at work and didn't get home until almost 7 0'clock, so we postponed again. Friday we told ourselves we HAD to cut the grass; the rye that Dave overseeded with in the fall is getting quite deep after a week of weather in the 70s. We were all set to cut the grass. Dave even got off of work early. But alas, the sprinklers had run on Thursday night, and it was too wet to mow. So, we sat on the sofa for a while eating pizza before going upstairs to the office for Dave to tie flies and for me to work on my portfolio that is due Monday night.

We got up this morning ready to mow. Dave wanted to go pick up some supplies for planting tomato plants; I could have waited on him, but decided I would like to be finished by noon. I pulled the power out of the garage and into the backyard, after scoopin' the poopin' first. As I wheeled the mower into the backyard, I remembered with dread how hard it is for me to start the mower--especially when the engine is cold. I pumped the little primer button about six times and attempted to pull the starter string while I held down the safety lever on the mower. Nothing. And it's no wonder since I barely pulled the string its entire length. I pulled again. If possible, this pull was even more wimpy that the first. I silently chastised myself for all these years of avoiding sweat and yard work and becoming soft, unable to even start the mower. I would not let this get the better of me. Again, I pushed the little primer button and even checked for gasoline--it was low, but it would do. Again I pulled to no avail. But, I persisted and after five or six (I lost count, it was probably higher) attempts, I heard a bit of a sputter. Energized by this sound, knowing that I was close, thankful that I was behind the fence of the backyard so that Mason was the only witness to my ordeal, I pulled hard and fast. The engine growled to life. Yippee!!!

Happy that I had conquered the mower, I pushed it through the tall green grass of the backyard, throwing tennis balls and frisbees out of my path as I went. Mason lay happily panting on the cool concrete of the backyard, content to supervise. Dave arrived from his errands just as I finished the backyard. He took the mower and tackled the sloping front yard next to the neighbor's house. While he mowed, I weeded. He took a break to weed for a bit, and I mowed the street-side of the front yard. There is a slight slope on this side that almost got me, but I wouldn't let it. Dave finished the weedeating, just as I finished the sideyard.

There's something to be said for working in the yard--especially when one is avoiding graduate school homework!