I’ve reached that unsettling age-y point in my life where I’m thrilled my lawn is mowed, and I’m excited by the chance to edge the sucker.  That’s right: the adrenaline gets pumping when I know I can whip out the electric string trimmer and force a straight line down the edges of my property.

This is a cry for help, mein amigos.  I know I’ve betrayed the ideals of my younger self (who paid scant attention to lawns) and fear that one day you’ll see me taking my trusty Honda on a tour of my yard, mercilessly killing the blades of grass that dare to grow in my way, all the while blissfully unaware that my socks have turned coal black and have crept up to my knees.  Plus, I’ll be in sandals.

There’s gotta be a number I can call, an address to which I can write; there’s got to be a god of youthfulness I can besiege with prayer, a demon of wishful thinking whose bungalow I can go visit; I dunno, maybe Santa Claus can keep me from turning into the neighborhood grandpa?

Right now, even as I type out this plea, my mind is slowly being consumed by the thought that somewhere in my yard there’s a tree with dead branches.  And I have to trim it.  And it makes me smile.  I’m smiling an evil smile because I know my resistance is slowly being trimmed away and I, too, will be soon yelling,

YOU, KIDS!  GET OFF MY LAWN!