How to weed eat for the first time when you're 41

Since the "How to fly for the first time when you're 40" post was so wildly successful {read my mom and two friends loved it} I thought I would add another installment to the "first time" series.

He lived across the street, and he was in high school. He was a senior in high school, but that didn't stop me from having a crush on him. 

Never mind that I was in first grade. 

I remember the day he was weed eating and something happened. He got slashed right across his chest. I was devastated. 

I guess you probably shouldn't weed eat with no shirt on.

And I'm not sure exactly how it happened. All I can figure is that they have made improvements in weed eaters in the last thirty years?

I think this was formative, though, in my slight fear of weed eaters.

I didn't give them much thought until I moved in with my stepmom and dad. My stepmom loved doing yard work.

I didn't really understand that. She said it was a job she could actually finish and get satisfaction from a completed job.

I didn't understand this either.

It would take me having children before I knew what she meant.

You know, they are finished eating dinner before you are done cooking it, dirtying clothes as you put away the clean ones, making a mess in the room you just cleaned while you clean the next one, and pretty much undoing everything you just did. 

Then I got it.  

A job completed. All at once. That stayed completed for awhile.

Ah. Gotcha.

So I always wanted to do yard work. I wanted to be like my stepmom in that. 

But my kind husband said that was his job. 

In the eighteen years we've been married, I think I have cut the grass twice. But it may be only once.

He just likes to do that for me. And how do you complain about that?

We had a yard service when the kids were young. I didn't care that it cost money; I needed my husband inside on the weekends helping me stay sane. There was this one day where the four year old and the two year old stood at the door crying with their snotty noses pressed against the glass watching him mow the grass while I bounced a crying newborn (I have a picture somewhere of this scenario but those days are sort of a blur, and I'm not sure I could locate it) and the very next day I called a nice man who came and did all the yard work during the week like magic and then the daddy held the baby on the weekends and entertained the other two while I tried desperately to find my brain. 

Then when the kids got older I decided to cancel the yard service because people were bigger now and wouldn't cry at the door. They could maybe even HELP THE YARD DADDY.

And all was well.

Fast forward to this month. It has been a hard, long month for my poor husband. He has worked so much and had so much going on. As I sat on the patio one morning doing Bible study, my eyes slid over to the weeks that had snuck up slightly higher than normal with all the rain and I thought, "Gosh, I hate to ask him about the yard." He hasn't even had time to be in the backyard, much less notice that the weeds were high. 

I casually asked him early in the week if he thought he would get to it any time soon and he sadly said, "It'll be Saturday morning." 

"No big deal!" I answered. See, I had thought of a plan. 

I texted my neighbor/dearloyalfriend and asked her to help me learn how to weed eat. She, who loves an adventure, and me, said she would. We set a time, and I met her in the back yard holding the weed eater. 

I was a little nervous.

I have a habit of falling down. And dropping stuff. And tripping over stuff. And being a klutz in general. And when it comes to yard work, I have proved less than stellar at it already.  

I think I went through three extension cords the first time I trimmed the bushes. 

It was a surprise for the hubs.

Yep. He was real surprised to find out we had to buy three new extension cords.

Those things are expensive, dangit.

Anyway, with visions of cut extension cords dancing in my head, along with lost toes and a flying rock putting my eye out, I was as ready as I ever would be. I had on jeans and close-toed shoes. I was properly outfitted and ready to take on the world.

Or at least the weeds.

Karen and I investigated the weed eater, got a plan, and I cranked her up.

Actually it's electric so I just pushed the handle.

It roared to life and I was a bit trepidatious. 

Karen may have even laughed. 

And she may have said out loud, "I wish I had a camera!"

Well, me being me, I whipped my phone out of my back pocket and then this happened:

You can tell she was surprised. 

She said I looked really scared. I agree with her.  

Then this happened. 

And then it just became like a party.

I learned as I went. And here's what I discovered:

• you have lots of time to think while you're doing yard work 
• you get really dirty when you're doing yard work
• edging is really harder than it looks {straight lines, anyone?}
• yard work is harder than it looks
• i hope i said "thank you" every time the husband got done with the yard work
• your back and arms get pretty tired. 
• your arms feel like jelly for a period of time after {how long does this last?}

But I got used to this machine, this weed eating machine, and once I figured out that I couldn't break it, and it wasn't going to eat me, I got aggressive with it and actually sort of had fun. I think I was even sad when I was all done. I even got out the blower that hubs had begged me to use every time he saw me with a broom in my hand, and I blew the heck out of those cut weeds too.

That was fun. Although there is an art to not blowing the weeds in a circle, right back to where you had just blown them from.

 I had to figure that out.

I knew better than to push my luck and actually mow something, since the day had been such a success. Hopefully this will be a surprise to the hubs when he goes outside to do yard work tomorrow, and I liked it enough to make it sort of "my" job. Maybe he'll mow still. But I might like that job too. {See, the kids can't come behind me and make the grass grow before I'm done. I see how this works. I do like it. A job completed all at once}

As soon as I got done, I heard another weed eater crank up in the neighborhood. I had to resist the urge to go find the operator and give them a fist bump. 

You know, from one expert weed eater to another.

***edited to add: Hubs looked at the picture on my phone when he got home that night and said, "That's not the weed eater. That's the edger. The weed eater is by the lawn mower." {It stands to reason I didn't see it there since I was AVOIDING THE LAWN MOWER.} Okay then. My friend said since it's whacks weeds, it's a weed eater. I tend to agree. So I weed eated with an edger. I still did it. But maybe this means I should leave the weed eating to the experts? Hm.....