There are a lot of things in life that I no longer do. Not because i’m a wimp, or because i’m afraid of trying new things, or I believe that certain things only certain genders should do (although I would PREFER not to do certain things)- but because i’ve done them before and had such a bad experience I swore never in my ENTIRE existence on this planet to do it again.
I know some of us, after a long night of drinking, and then puking and waking up with a mouth that tastes like a lovely combination or motor oil and fart with a headache that you swear is actually multiple pianos being dropped onto your skull, like to mutter those familiar and much ballyhooed words: “I’M NEVER DRINKING AGAIN!” but don’t really mean it, but there are the few occasions that we do.
Like, say… maybe you went skydiving and for a split second your chute didn’t open and you thought you were plummeting to your untimely demise, or you bought a brand of diapers because they were on sale and you wanted to save a couple of bucks and five minutes after the first use was the poo-splosion to end all poo-splosions, or perhaps you ate at some hyped up restaurant and the food made you so crazy buttsick that you started to see zombie gnomes coming out of your walls-
You’d probably never do, buy, or go to any of those things ever again (unless you’re REALLY a glutton for punishment).
My list is, for the most part, not so serious- of things I just refuse to do anymore, or have previously claimed I would never do again. I don’t get out much, and while I hate to sound all “mom-ish” and shit, I am what I am, and it is what it is.
It must also be the mom in me and the two pregnancies that made me forget why I had sworn not to do one particular thing, because come Thursday morning, I started getting the itch to do it. Even though I KNEW I hated it. Even though I KNEW only bad things would come of it- like childbirth, sometimes the worst parts of situations get erased over time. Or bleached. Or burned. Or lobotomized. Whatever works for you, I always say.
This thing for me… is GARDENING.
GASP! THE HORROR!
Yeah, I fucking know, it’s just gardening. Who in the hell cares if I garden or not?
Look, I don’t really want to grow another baby on my insides right now, but I want to grow SOMETHING, and why not have that something be something that I can eat? I like to eat. Eating is good. And garden food is healthy. It isn’t like i’m going to be growing peanut butter oreo trees and stuffing them into my face until my cheeks balloon out like a chipmunk- so gardening is GOOD, right? (side note: Now I want to grow peanut butter oreo trees. Fuck my brain for even suggesting such a magnificent unattainable thing)
I don’t garden. For good reason. The last time I did, I was gigantically pregnant with big-head Holden in the dead heat of summer, and a camouflaged ninja spider flew at me and tried to eat my face off. Seriously. That thing had wings and it was out for blood.
|Give me a tomato right MEOW!|
Ever seen a gigantic, sweaty, huffing and puffing pregnant woman jump like an NBA star? Trust me when I say that you don’t want to.
I let Thomas take over the garden after that, and I haven’t touched a garden since. Unless we’re talking about my neighbors gardens. I touch those. And I don’t mean I go into their yards and physically touch their gardens, but I take the fruits of their labors happily when given to me. That’s about as close to “garden” as I get.
Y’know.. until now. I don’t know what came over me, it was almost the weekend when Thomas would be home and could dig up the backyard to his heart’s content- but we’d bought this tomato plant in a pot and that thing started to look so pissed because it was running out of root room that I swore it would go Little Shop of Horrors on me one day and try to eat me that I knew it needed to be moved soon. Also, it was going to be over 100 degrees all weekend, not even including the hell that is humidity… so being the AMAZING, SWEET, CARING, and CONSIDERATE wife that I am (I typed all of that with a straight face, go me!) I decided the day had to be that day, else the husband would get heat stroke. I can’t have that happening, who would pick up the dog poop?
So, my dumb ass went all Martha Stewart on the back yard ( I don’t even know if she gardens but i’m assuming she does because she intends to take over the planet) and dug that shit up like it was my job. What did I get in return? Cleavage sweat when I don’t even have boobs, swamp ass, two GIANT disgusting blisters on my right hand (of course, i’m right handed), and more camouflaged ninja spiders trying to eat my fucking face off.
Obviously, when I tell myself i’ll never do something again- I’M RIGHT! It should not be done.
Someday i’ll learn that I absolutely know best… either that or ninja spiders will eat me first.
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