I just detest gardening. In fact, I don't really like to be outside at all, for the most part. I like a walk in the woods or on the beach, but that is somehow quite different from toiling over weeds among bugs and thorns in one's own garden. I enjoy having things look nice, and I love being able to run out and grab some herbs for my soup, or a tomato that actually tastes like a tomato. And I even like sitting on my garden swing, reading a book and communing with the birds, but only for a very, very short time. But working in the soil and getting dirty? Ugh! It would be so nice if someone else would do it. But no one will.
Social pressure drove me to haul out my lawn mower and take the first swipe of the year at my grass, which was getting to be knee high. I felt that I was being incredibly virtuous somehow and that this might even garner a star in my heavenly crown. I suppose that is being overly optimistic. There were, however, some other rewards in the sweet little flora peeping out from beneath the leafy clutter.
One young fellow was piteously crying out that he would be very happy to help me if only I would let him. But alas, I would not.