Mowa de lawn

I don't work out. I would love nothing more than to work out; the idea in itself is fabulous. Why wouldn't I want to work up a sweat and lose a couple of pounds? I just can't bring myself to put on running shoes and do anything about anything.

There are a few things that I do to keep myself in semi-decent shape: pouring two pitchers at once behind the bar, sweeping the drive with a vigor that can only be compared to extreme anger, running my mouth, and mowing the lawn. Quickly. Quickly, but with great care. And I don't know what it is about a woman mowing the lawn that drives men to ogling, but they do. Ogle. Driving by my house at a turtle's pace, hanging out the window, sometimes three or four of them grouped together like wild dogs, ogling anything and everything with breasts and a lawn mower.

I guess.

What is it about this activity that is so awe-inspiring to men? Passers-by on foot stop to ask me if I'll do theirs next; beer in one hand, tiny lap dog leashed on the other, laughing, "hur hur hur." Or stop to offer up advice from across the street: "you gotta lift the blade off that grass and it'll start right back up agin!" Thanks.

Of course, it might be the get-up I chose for this chore. Every good lawn maintenance person knows that jeans are ideal for push-mowing, but given the ridiculous heat that Texas provides, one must improvise. My choice ensemble consists of the smallest track shorts in the world, accompanied by tall football socks, tank top, and doo-rag.

Roommate, watching me dress from the doorway: "Um, where are you going?"

Me, putting on shades: "To mow. The lawn."

I just wish my push mower had a cup holder. Or rather, this lovely redneck to push me along with his four wheeler, so it would be like I had my own riding mower. But then, I wouldn't get much exercise.