Despite the fact that I drive the heck out of our zippy five-speed manual transmission Mazda, and the fact that I drive our minivan like I need to get the kids to the raceway poddy–NOW! — despite both of THOSE facts, I feel complete terrified when I am sitting on our riding mower.
It’s irrational, I know. It’s unlikely that I will launch myself out of the seat and land in front of the mower with my body suddenly trapped underneath a thick vine, and then slowly watch the mower bear down on me, its blade screaming with laughter until I am slowly sliced to bits on a perfectly lovely, sunny day.
It’s irrational, I know, to feel certain that I am suddenly going to lose all control and go careening into the pointy-est of all bushes, where the pointy-est of all branches will be perfectly face-level. AHHH! … Thus, forever ruining my chances in Cycle 15 of America’s Next Top Model (the big cycle for MILFs with ALL sorts o’ junk).
OK, so those are the reasons. Hey, I’m NOT psychotic. Like everyone, I just have irrational fears– goaded on by an elaborate imagination.
SOOooo, the upshot of all this is that I have VOWED to myself (and now aloud to all six of you) to learn to confidently mow our entire lawn by the end of the summer.
And when I say “confidently,” that means:
- steering around all the obstacles without slicing them down (sandbox, newly-planted lilac shrubs, largish house, Tati (and any other siblings), and an assortment of half-inflated balls;
- mowing the smaller front yard, which includes going around the dastardly pavers that I drove over the LAST (meaning “final”) time I drove the mower. In which I dessicated the blade and caused our grass to grow above window-level while waiting for Colin to get a replacement blade;
- being able to get the mower in and out of the shed, which of course, is up a half-rotted, termite nibbled ramp and through a door– a door which is smaller than the mower.
So, what are the bets? Anyone want to wager? Thoughts?