Gimme Some Mow

I love to mow my yard. I couldn't tell you exactly why; maybe it's because I've been doing it since I was about ten, thanks to the slave driver who had me so she wouldn't have to do such chores my mom. Maybe it's because it gives me a rare opportunity to be alone and blast my iPod (during which I fantasize wildly about being skinny, getting a boob job, and inking book deals). Maybe it's the sense of satisfaction when I look back over the green expanse of freshly cropped grass. Or maybe it's a combination of all these things. Whatever it is, Curtis likes it - it's kept him from having to mow the yard all summer long, because I insist on doing it myself.

The problem is, we have over an acre of land ... and a push mower. Mowing our yard isn't a quick buzz around a little square patch; it's a monumental and time-consuming task. That in itself doesn't dampen my enthusiasm for the chore. Being eight months pregnant (and HUGE) does. Not because I can't physically do it - I'm fine as long as I pace myself, and the exercise does me good - but because of the increasingly horrified looks I'm getting from people passing by.

It's bad enough that I get gawked at in disbelief every time I waddle awkwardly walk through the grocery store. But those looks are nothing compared to the rubbernecking that goes on when someone passes a freakishly-pregnant chick hunched over a lawn mower. (It's probably because they initially mistake me for a blimp trying to get off the ground.) When I didn't look so "ready to pop," people would casually check me out and then go about their merry way - but now, they'll actually slow down to stare.

Even my neighbors cast worried glances out their windows and peep from their open garage doors to monitor my progress. I'm sure they all think Curtis is some abusive tyrant who forces his poor, uncomfortably pregnant wife to mow the yard because he's too lazy to do it himself. (In reality, of course, nothing could be further from the truth - he's always volunteering to take over the job, and bringing drinks outside.) I need to get him a T-shirt printed up that says, "I'd Mow it if She'd Let Me."

... On second thought, maybe I won't. That sounds a little pervy.