There are a few things that I think I do fairly well, and gardening is one of them.
Unfortunately, procrastination is another.
All summer I had this erosion-problem, turned redirected-waterflow-through-new-landscape-bed project hanging over my head. My father-in-law, Wade, and I kept talking about doing it, but we never really got our act together.
Then I got nagged.
Never miss a local story.
Classic: “Susan are you ever going to…?” husband nag.
When the going gets tough, the tough go shopping. I bought daffodil bulbs to put in the new bed knowing that they had to get in the ground soon.
One month later…
“Susan are you ever going to…?”
Like he can rush greatness.
Wade and I realized that, weather-wise, late November was as far as we could push it. I had nothing left in my procrastination bag.
I measured the area…there was math involved.
I bought several large bags of rock to put down first.
I went back for more because there was math involved.
On Project Day, I worked on the rock portion while Wade started to shovel dirt.
I was down to four bags of rock — this was a great system! This project was going really fast! Maybe we could be done by lunch!
I picked up the next bag of rocks, balanced it in my arms and started to carry it down a little hill to the project area…
…and then the bag wasn’t balanced.
And then I wasn’t balanced.
“I’m going down!” I shouted at Wade as I, indeed, went down.
Holding a really big bag of rocks.
“Are you OK?” I heard him above me but didn’t open my eyes.
“Sure, I just didn’t stick the landing. Give me a minute.”
Several minutes later...
“Are you sure you’re OK?”
“Uh, yeah? Almost breathing normally.”
Several more minutes later I gracefully (pretty sure I wasn’t that graceful, but my eyes were still closed so I can’t accurately report) rolled over, then sllloooooowwwwly stood up.
“Are you sure…?”
I lied. “Fine.” Then I truthed. “Let’s just get this done, if I stop I won’t be able to start back up.”
Two pickup beds of dirt, 20 inches of edging, two redirected downspouts, two Aleve and three hours later, I dragged myself inside.
I was right: after I took a shower and sat down, sitting seemed the best thing to do.
The only thing to do.
Two days later I went to the doctor and came home to wait for the good pain meds to kick in. There isn’t anything to be done about broken ribs other that tough it out…or wait it out if you aren’t tough.
As injuries go, I was very fortunate — but darn if “fortunate” didn’t hurt. A lot.
In theory, a short stint of being sedentary sounded pretty good. Heck, being sedentary should be on my list of things I do well.
Which brought us to the finale of “Dancing with the Stars.” I am not a dancer, at all, but I’m not an ice skater, either, but darn if I can’t sock skate or sock rumba with the best of them.
Except that night all I could do was a mental foxtrot or jive. The whole week had been one long mannequin challenge for me: find a position, sit still. Do. Not. Move.
“Whatcha watching?” My husband asked.
“Dancing with the Stars.” This sentence should have sent him out of the room mumbling something snarky, but no: He stared at the TV.
“It’s the finals and I love the freestyle. I watch all season for the freestyle. Go away.”
But he didn’t go away.
He sat down.
He asked questions. Serious questions. Who was this man?
He watched all the way through.
I had dreaded him watching with me, but in the end, I was happy he did. Being sedentary is kind of lonely.
Life gives you surprises each and every day — some good, some bad — but if this past week has taught me anything ,it’s to roll with them.
Just don’t hang on to a big bag of rocks when you do.