It’s been about 20 years since I’ve mowed a lawn. Seriously. In Florida, I haven’t lived in a house since the early 90’s; in apartments, I mainly associated lawn care with loud, irritating leaf blowers and tree trimmers at the ungodly hour of 9am.
Today’s Big Cleaning Day around here. Floor mopping, bathroom scrubbing, general disinfecting, and yes, lawn mowing – which is now my job. So I spent a chunk of time this morning out back, hacking my way through the Mayan jungle in search of the ancient temple of Tikal and mulching lots of rotten oranges, dog dumpage and grass on my way there. That’s a lovely combination of smells, I kid you not.
But the real question is.. when do you know it’s love?
I mean, anyone can mow a lawn when its 65 degrees. Or take out the trash. Or wash dishes during the day, or make the bed.
So when do you know it’s love? I think I have an answer to that question:
When you find yourself fishing cold, wet, disgusting clothes (apparently deposited by some kind homeless person) out of the yard waste trash can with a stick, one item at a time, very carefully transferring each to the proper trash can. So that it gets picked up. And so your woman doesn’t have to do it.
That, my friends, is love.