On Fear, Pain, and Change

I usually do my best thinking in the shower, I think because it is the one place that forces me to be frank with myself.  There I have to confront all sorts of imperfections and problems.  A little too much pudge here, toenails that need trimming, ingrown hairs.  I notice the small things like how it takes the skin on my hand just an almost imperceptible amount of time longer to spring back into place.  I can’t deny that I’m getting older, and that right now, in this moment, I’ll be the youngest I’ll ever be again.

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I am entirely mundane! Behold!

One of the great things about being a pseudohomeowner (aka…house renter) is that you get the joys of yardwork in addition to paying for someone else’s equity. Win, win, surely!

So, today when I came home from work I looked at the overgrown lawn and realized that once again it was time for me to whip out the ol’ lawnmower. The yard at our house has been a constant struggle. As you can see from our house picture below, the grass that borders the street is dead and you can also see in the same picture our piteous attempt to revive it with our hose and a little sprinkler. I know it is entirely irrational to have a lawn in the arid Southwestern clime, but again, did I mention that it is not my house. Nightly, I awake, frightened and I remember, somewhere back in my wee brain signing a paper saying I would take care of the lawn. A. feels that that means it’s entirely up to us how we “take care” of the lawn (his version involves a magical xeriscaping fantasy complete with us spending lots of money). Being the destroyer of dreams that I am, I take the water the hell out of stuff approach and see what happens. Well, it has happened.
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