SUNDAY WITH A ROTO-TILLER:
You all know what roto-tiller is, right? It is the contemporary version of plow + ox? You dig up the ground so you can plant new things in it. Things get fresh and virile when you mix things up. Well, I used the roto-tiller on Sunday, for just these purposes. We wanted to re-seed the back yard with Kentucky Bluegrass, and plant a new flower garden in the front yard. It was a lot of work. And my body paid the price.
Good gawd - six hours of usage in one day. This is not to bitch, or to bemoan my awful existance that allows the leisure time to work on the yard. Me's a lucky guy, to toil in the hot sun. But holy crap are my muscles sore. Every muscle on every appendage. Biceps, triceps, hands, fingers. Upper and lower back. Calves, achilles, feet. And my neck, o my neck. Mind you, I've been in training for the Twin Cities' marathon, in October. I'm not a couch potato. But I've also never really been able to tame a wild horse, either. And THAT's what the roto-tiller feels like. Our front and back yard ground was packed very firm, and the tiller was throwin' me.
But, alas, as the last of my muscles gave out, and my breath-force was near final decay, I finished. I was done. We cleaned up (Hannah planted, fertilized, spread burlap, and raked old sod), I returned the tiller to Home Depot, from where I rented it, and then we collapsed on our living room chairs. Re-runs on TV never looked so good. The veggie tacos we made never tasted so crisp and spicy. Our bed was never softer. And this morning, o this morning - not since the Beaver Creek snowboarding incident, and before that, two-a-day practices for college football, did my body squeek. What this means: anyone who has a grudge with me, and wants to settle it through arm wrestling will be able to beat me handily - with their little finger. Cuz I'm mellow like jell-o.
2:37 PM |
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