If there’s one thing that’ll test your dignity, decision-making skills, and maybe the laws of physics, it’s a cheap lawnmower on a hot Saturday morning.
I learned this last summer when my neighbor Gary — a man who believes duct tape is a lifestyle, not a tool — offered me his mower. It looked like it had fought in two world wars and lost both. The gas cap? A peanut butter jar lid. I should’ve said no. Instead, I said, “Thanks, Gary.”
The Optimism
Coffee in hand, I patted the mower like it was a horse I was about to ride into battle. First pull of the cord nearly dislocated my shoulder. Second sounded like a sneeze. Third? A bang, some smoke, and the smell of regret. Gary, grinning from his porch, yelled: “Keep going!” Eventually, it coughed to life.
The Chaos
Once running, it sounded like a portable earthquake. I jogged behind it, pretending to be in control, while Mrs. Henderson across the street watched like I was stealing my own lawn.
Then came the rock. The mower spat it out like a cannonball, barely missing Gary’s mailbox. “She does that sometimes!” he called, as if that was normal. Moments later, the grass bag exploded, dumping clippings all over my shoes.
The Bee Rebellion
Near the back fence, I unknowingly leveled a wildflower patch — apparently the local bee embassy. They rose in a buzzing cloud. I sprinted for the garage while the mower idled outside, probably laughing with Gary, who nearly fell over from watching.
The Ending
By the time I smelled smoke and saw the peanut butter lid rattling, I knew I should quit. But I didn’t. One last push, one final wobble, and the handle snapped mid-row. I finished steering with one hand, praying not to mow off my toes.
Finally, the mower sputtered, sighed, and died. Gary clapped. Mrs. Henderson clapped. Even the bees seemed satisfied.
Lessons Learned:
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Never borrow a mower with a peanut butter jar lid.
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Bees don’t like surprise landscaping.
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My dignity costs more than free lawn care.
