Life is all about carpe diem.
The older I get, the more I appreciate the joie de vivre of “why not?” In my children this was never fun as it involved a Vesuvius-sized mess, blood or other bodily fluid, or one of those infamous “Mrs. Bowen?” phone calls. Let’s call it a crapshoot and move on, shall we?
Yesterday I decided that the yard needed mowing. Our yard dude, Matt, an eclectic juxtaposition of redneck and surfer with a farmer’s tan, moved to Florida and no male in my house mows because allergies. Mowing is no big deal and I find I rather enjoy it especially if I’m peeved. There’s nothing quite as cathartic as symbolically decapitating someone while chop-chop-chopping down blades of grass and weeds. Or is that just me? Don’t answer that.
The weather was gorgeous…around 84 degrees with a nice breeze. Piece o’cake!
All together now…!
Suffice to say, it turned out hotter than I thought and our yard is huge. It’s a push mower and paying someone to do the yard work has made me into, well…a pansy.
I staggered through the back door as His Awesomeness rounded the corner from the hall, his arms outstretched, ready for a hug.
Don’t touch me! I’m sweating like a hooker at a Friday night tent revival.
My firstborn shot me a look and quickly hied over to the fridge to pour me a glass of water. I’d like to say he did it because he’s thoughtful but I’m pretty sure it had more to do with the fact that I grunted like a camel headed for an oasis. It couldn’t have been pretty.
By now, I was wishing I was home alone, free to unleash The Girls like twin swords of Damocles from the confines of my sweat-soaked brassiere, but it wasn’t meant to be. I gingerly lowered myself to the kitchen floor, prostrating myself across the cool linoleum, His Awesomeness looking on like she’s finally lost her shit but saying Mom, what in the hell are you doing?
No talking; just lower the water down here and back away. I’m having the mother of all hot flashes. Being smart and conscious of the fact that Mom exhibited all the signs of a woman on the edge, he handed down the glass and vacated the premises.
I lay there, beached like Shamu on the coastline of kitchen lino trying to understand why I do these things to myself. My thoughts, like those of Kid Rock in his northern Michigan youth, were short. I stared, chest heaving, under-boob sweat cascading down my sides, at the kitchen ceiling. When had that stain appeared? Tiny specks of dark red dotted the area over the sink. Sibling bloodletting? Ritual sacrifice? Ah, bingo!, splattered marinara from when I’d dropped the pan into the sink.
The popcorn of said ceiling has never been my favorite feature mostly for the fact that dust loves ceiling popcorn, mocking me and my lack of domestic cleaning skills. As do spider webs. And there, hanging like a macabre sticky chandelier, was the web of a daddy long legs. I watched him, her, it. I couldn’t tell from way down on the floor and, as I hate arachnids, I wasn’t getting close enough to inspect the bits.
All of a sudden it occurred to me that I lay flat on my back under the habitat of a creature that scares the bejeebers out of me. What if it landed on me? Simple: I’d die of a heart attack. Then from somewhere deep in my subconscious, I heard my mother’s voice. What if the paramedics come and find you on the floor? You’re not wearing your good underpants. What if, in their earnestness to save you, they have to cut off your clothes? What then? You want them to see your ratty granny panties?
Merciful heavens! Not only do I have to concern myself with being attired in my bestest underpants for a potential car wreck, as per my mother’s admonitions, I can’t even have an in-home run in with wildlife for fear of needing to be ready at any hour of the day or night to entertain the presence of rescue personnel, the media and maybe Geraldo in the midst of my plight.
Nuh-uh. No way.
Tomorrow I’m hiring a new lawn guy!