Let's talk about.

Yes, my lawn is a forest. It has its own ecology. It may even spawn a new bird species, a tiny sparrow that’s nothing but big, big eyes trying to make its way through my forest of a lawn.

I don’t know how this happened. My dogs can’t fit through it.

Yes, I do.

I didn’t choose the plantings in my front yard, and complained to deaf ears. So there’s that. Not that it matters now.

What really did it is that I had cancer and foot surgery last year, rendering me completely unable to wield a set of shrub trimmers.

No, neither of those things are really the problem. My problem — and this is not going to go away — is that I absolutely, positively, unequivocally despise yard work.

I grew up on the southeastern coast of the country, on military bases that were nothing but marsh, mosquitoes, gnats, wasps, yellowjackets, crickets, flying-while-fucking stinkbugs, fire-ant mounds and pure, luxurious, unstoppable crabgrass.

If you grew up on a military base yourself, or know anyone who did, then you know the lawn has to look a certain way. Every day. Every. Single. Day. That’s in the south, where the growing season is 365 days a year, the lawn has to look decent everyday.

Guess who got to cut that grass two or three or four times a week?

I’m still consumed by dread when I smell cut grass. I’ve met people who, out of the blue, will mention that they love the smell of cut grass. I’m like, “Are you on hard street drugs, man?” as I start to sweat and collect dirt rings around my neck. Nope, that’s not a hot flash. That’s a flashback.

Now, you might be thinking to yourself, “Get over it. Fuck.” But I can’t. One base house had a corner lot. Do you know how many bug bites that is?

I should also mention that I wasn’t very good at the job, either. If you think all that experience would have taught me pro golf lawn care, you would be 100% incorrect. The more I did it, the worse it got. So the more I got to do it, and the worse it got.

If you think that would’ve prompted my dad to a) relieve me; or b) teach me a better way, you’d be wrong there, too. As a man in the military, even in peacetime, do you know how much time that man had to spend sweating, sweating, sweating in the hot Carolina sun?

No, this was a life lesson for me. No, two: don’t follow Dad’s career choices. And avoid lawns.

Present day

I now own battery-operated shrub trimmers, a chainsaw and a polesaw. This lawn-care trio has already been stolen once. The thief realized quickly they weren’t in use and wouldn’t be missed for a long time. Which is true. But now that they’ve been replaced, myself, my dread and my best friend will be trimming the shit out of my forest of a lawn. I’m also, I’m told, buying and applying 20 bags of mulch.

Will I take pictures to share? It’ll still be trash, so this is less than likely. Will I cry and call my employer’s EAP line? Yes. Yes I will.