This morning as I left for work my landscaper rolled up to conduct his usual bi-weekly lawn maintenance. I waved to him and anticipated the inevitable “Your grass is cut, you can pay me now” text (I’m paraphrasing). Like clockwork my phone pinged, however this time it was joined with the little passive aggressive shame nugget that I really should be having my lawn cut more often because it’s summer and why don’t I pay up so the yard won’t look like shit? (again, paraphrasing). I mean he’s not wrong…it was starting to look a little Florida vacation home circa 2007 (that’s a cerebral economy joke in case you didn’t get it). At the same time it’s like “Back off bro! I’m a lonely widow who doesn’t own a lawnmower!” This just proves to be another glaring example of one of things I hate about widowhood…having to do all the shit myself.
Before I met Bryan, I lived alone and embraced my independent womanhood. Sure, I wanted to find a life partner, but I was okay running my own self. In the immortal words of the Child of Destiny, “All the women, who are independent, Throw your hands up at me. All the honeys, who making money, Throw your hands up at me. All the mommas, who profit dollars, Throw your hands up at me. All the ladies, who truly feel me, Throw your hands up at me.” Yes, that was me being an independent honey who profits dollars. When I did find a true partner in Bryan, I found that I relished taking some of the load off. Suddenly I wasn’t responsible for EVERYTHING and it made life easier. This isn’t some profound new idea after all, but I know of plenty relationships that aren’t that way, and I think, “what’s the point?”
Bryan was happy to do the grocery shopping, vacuuming, and getting the oil changed in my car-three things I have always hated, and still hate, to this day. He also did 99.9% of the cooking (there’s one time he was gone and I had to feed myself and another time I made him a cake). It was glorious, I just watched Jeopardy and food appeared. Now I don’t mind cooking per se, it’s the cleaning I hate…and he did that too. The kitchen was his domain and I was fine with that. Nowadays, I go to the grocery store maybe once a month if I’m lucky and barely microwave a frozen meal. I eat out way too much, causing damage to my wallet and waistline. That’s just what it’s like in the abyss. I recently had my kitchen completely redone with new cabinets, counter top, back splash and paint. I’ve cooked in it ONE time. #realtalk The reason for this is likely 1 tbsp. laziness, 2 cups depression, 2 tsp. hatred of dishes to clean, and 3 tbsp. indignant bitterness that Bryan isn’t here to cook for me. Now that’s a recipe for…wait for it…disaster! LOLz
I also tend to ugly cry most late Friday nights as I land at JIA at 11:48 pm from a long week in Nowhere USA and must drag my 50 pound bag a mile to my car, if I can even remember where I parked it. Pre-Bryan I didn’t mind this ritual. I could finally drive my car and not some shitty Chevy Crapper (trademark pending), I was finally warm in the Florida air, and I could sleep in my own bed and catch up on my TV. When Bryan and I were together he always picked me up from the airport, and dragged my suitcase up and down stairs. I would literally say “You can take my bag now” unironically. Those were the days, you guys. When I landed at DEN I was suddenly a little less exhausted and bedraggled because I knew my man was waiting for me at Arrivals Door 508 with (always) a Coke Zero and (sometimes) pizza! But that is no more. I must carry my own bag, metaphorically and literally. I’m so fucking deep aren’t I?
Last Friday night, my flight from Minneapolis was late and I landed at 12:20 a.m. I’d been up for 19 hours. My bag was the last one on the carousel and after walking in stifling humidity (no longer pleasant) keys betwixt knuckles to avoid rapists, I could not find my car. Widow brain had struck again and I totally forgot where I parked it. Twenty minutes and two elevator rides later, it was spotted, but not without a parking ticket! So yeah I cried all the way home. Thanks Bryan!
I’m chalking this up to the many “secondary losses” I’ve mentioned before. I hope to someday not feel like every day is a burden and utterly annoying and exhausting. I’ve got to retrain myself to embody the Destiny’s Child mantra of a honey who makes money. I guess I just got too comfortable having a husband. Pro Tip: Don’t have a husband and you’ll never be mad/sad when you don’t have one! On that note, I think I’ll go pay the landscaper now.
2 thoughts on “My Yard Needs Cutting”
I love you Em,
No idea how or why I sent this to you. A Gmail vortex of some sort? A PD induced brain fart?
Yup, another mystery of the outer banks.
Sent from my iPhone
LikeLiked by 1 person