Greener Grass and Other Marriage Myths

It was hot and muggy. I heaved against the ancient lawn mower’s handle which had already been re-welded once. Heavy and unwieldy, it was truly SELF propelled. My husband had tried to replace it but money was tight and technically it still cut the grass – so it was at the bottom of the wish list.

With blisters forming on my hands, I was regretting my decision of ever wanting to switch roles.

My husband’s “work” around the house consisted of the yard. Mine, on the other hand, included the week’s laundry, house cleaning and grocery shopping. I was certain I worked harder and longer. I complained long enough that eventually we decided to trade jobs.

Fine by me. I had visions of finishing the lawn early and relaxing inside while he labored over the house, shopping and washing, ironing, folding and putting away the laundry.

I slipped into the air conditioning to cool off. That was a mistake.

The laundry was just finishing drying. My husband was cleaning the knobs on the washer with a toothpick. Then he scraped all the lint and detergent, cemented by years of moisture, from under the rim of the washer lid. This wasn’t working out quite as I had envisioned.

With renewed determination, I returned to the battle and finished wrestling the lawn mower. Next up — weed-eating.

One hundred bushes enclosed our property creating a tailored hedge I prized for its beauty and privacy. But today it was the enemy’s front line. Grass growing between each trunk stood between me and victory. I swung the weed-eater back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth.  Half-way through my shoulder muscles were screaming. The weed eater had gained 75 pounds. The grass was vanquished but so was all the bark from the trunks. Clearly, there was a learning curve.

Time for another break.

Finally, some vindication. My husband struggled to hold the pleats of my white polyester skirt in place with both hands and one elbow, cover the pleats with a damp pressing cloth and then iron before the pleats escaped. I witnessed more than a few burned fingertips and choice words. Probably not the best time tell him that though it was my favorite skirt, I rarely wore it because it was so hard to launder. But now….

Back out to the battle. An hour later, I collapsed in the air conditioning and announced to my husband, “You can get your new lawnmower. Just have it by next week.”

Alas, I never used it. I switched back before he started enjoying his new jobs too much. He was thrilled with his new lawnmower. I went back to a pristine laundry room complete with a new ironing board cover.  I retired my white skirt once again to the back of the closet.

Three decades have passed since that eye-opening experiment. My husband pays someone else to do the yardwork now. I no longer fit into my favorite white skirt. But I keep it in the back of my closet anyway as a reminder that although the grass may look greener outside the kitchen window,—it is not. And is most certainly is not easy to mow!