Lawnmower Olympics

Do you remember when I waxed rhapsodic about how much I loved mowing the lawn and how my old-fashioned lawnmower was the best thing since sliced bread? Yes, well, at the time, our house was sitting on 1/3 of an acre...of flat land. Mowing the lawn required just about as much effort as painting my nails. It was a pleasant workout, like running a 5K. In other words, it was nothing like what I experienced yesterday.

Allow me to back up. When I got back from Greece, I noticed that only part of the back lawn had been mowed (the flat part). When I asked the Irishman about it, his response was, "Do you think I'm crazy enough to try and pull your mower up a 30 degree incline? I'm calling a lawn service."

Aghast that he was trying to put my dear lawnmower out of commission (but secretly pleased that he considers it MY mower), I assured him that I would have no difficulty mowing our lawn. Our 2 acres worth of lawn (of the 6 acres of property), most of which are extremely steep inclines.

(The yard immediately behind the house with the steepest inclines)

I'll pause here while you laugh at my sheer idiocy. It's okay, it's totally deserving.

So, the Irishman took Parker to the playground (at 2:30pm) and I changed into jeans and sneakers to get the job done. Within 5 minutes, I knew that I was in over my head. WAY over my head.

(The grassy path leading up to and through the orchard)

Perhaps if I had on cleats instead of old running shoes, it wouldn't have looked like I was playing slip and slide in the grass...being chased down the hill by the runaway lawn mower. Perhaps if I wasn't so incredibly stubborn, I would have admitted defeat after the third time I tumbled down the hill. But all I had to do was picture the smug smile on the Irishman's face as he came home and saw the barely completed lawn and I trudged onwards....upwards...downwards....flat on my face.

I had entered the lawnmower Olympics. It had a participant of one. One stupid, stubborn, sweaty, grass-stained contestant...which naturally meant that I won the gold medal. I love winning.

(The deceptively flat-looking side yard. The fenced part of the yard is the sunny patch in the distance)

As the story goes, the Irishman arrived home 3 hours later to find me using my body weight and sheer force of will to keep the lawnmower moving. My hair was sticking out from my ponytail in all directions, I had streaks of dirt and grass all over me and gnats in my eyes (gross, but true). He took one look at me and one look at the lawn and briefly remarked, "You. Are. Insane."

Insane can be a good thing, right? Now, please excuse me while I go and call the lawn service.