I’ve always been allergic to yard work.
Okay, okay, not technically allergic, although once we moved to the Obscenely High Pollen state of NC I could probably put that on a medic alert bracelet without being too far from the truth. Stepping outside right now is akin to an assault on my lungs.
But I digress.
My aversion to yard work started long, long ago in the days of free child labor (aka growing up in the ’70s). There were few things quite as torturous as being sent out to pull weeds or spread mulch. The grass made me itchy, the bugs stuck to my sweaty skin, and I hated pretty much everything having to do with overheating in the yard.
So I stuck to indoor chores. Vacuuming, cleaning bathrooms, even dusting – dusting! – in order to avoid working in the yard. I was even willing to dust the enormous screen – a wooden folding room divider made up of hundreds of slats. I had to dust it with Pledge and a freaking Q-tip, but it was still better than being sent out to work in the grass.
My sister got her cardio in by mowing the lawn…I should ask her sometime if that was voluntary or simply assigned to the oldest child…either way it saved me the trauma of pushing that machine through itchy grass on the hottest of summer days. I owe Bee a pretty big debt for that one.
Even today, BrightSide carries the bulk of yard work responsibilities, and he’s a pretty good sport to do it since I’m not exactly Susie Homemaker when it comes to keeping a sparkling clean house. I used to be able to help with big projects like weeds or mulch, but now that my back’s a liability I can’t even do that so he’s basically the reason we don’t get kicked out of our neighborhood for infractions involving “ramshackle” and “downtrodden.”
Me? I’m sticking to the yard work allergy excuse.
Visit Linda’s blog for her weekly stream of consciousness feature. This week’s prompt is “yard.”