Mowing Gone Wrong

All I wanted was to mow the yard. A quick simple task, checked off the list before the afternoon heat turned me into a human raisin. The grass was taller than usual thanks to all the rain we’ve been getting, but the mower roared to life like a champ, blades spinning, ready to tame the jungle. I was feeling oddly proud—look at me, conquering nature before lunch.

I made my way around the edge of the garden when I felt it: a thump. Not the “hit a stick” kind of thump. This was the “you’ve just run over something important” thump. My stomach dropped. I’d already moved the garden hose earlier, so this couldn’t possibly be my fault. And yet… there it was. Another hose. Not coiled, not put away, not even pretending to be useful. Just sprawled out in the creeping jenny like a green booby trap, waiting for its next victim.

This hose wasn’t even hooked up to anything. It hadn’t been used in ages. It was basically lawn litter—lying there like, “Go ahead. Ruin your day. I dare you.” I stopped the mower and checked the damage. The good news: it wasn’t wrapped around the blade. The bad news: it was now a shredded, limp relic of its former self. Once destined to water vegetables, it was now headed straight for the trash, and I could already hear the inevitable fussing from the garden’s usual caretaker. Yes, I knew it should have been rolled up. And yes, I could have been more watchful. But in that moment, all I could think was, “Well, that’s forty bucks I’ll never see again.”

I was still muttering about it as I stepped away from the mower, distracted and annoyed, when my foot caught on a patch of uneven ground. My body pitched forward in a clumsy, slow-motion dance of doom, and I smacked my head on the clothes pole. First the vertical bar, then my neck caught the bottom bar of the frame for good measure, as if the pole was determined to finish what the hose had started. The pain was sharp, the headache immediate, and the insult to my dignity… immeasurable.

So here I am: one ruined hose, one pounding headache, one sore neck, and a growing suspicion that the yard is actively plotting against me. I set out to do a simple chore, and instead, I was ambushed by forgotten equipment and unforgiving laundry infrastructure. Some days, you conquer the chore. Other days, the chore grabs you by the ankles, smacks you in the head, and laughs as you limp away.