Last Tuesday, I looked on the CrossFit Durham website and found that the owner had scheduled a Painstorm. I’d list the elements here, but suffice to say it was Lift a Bunch of Shit Over Your Head Until You Can’t Anymore Then Do Fifteen Rounds of Some Other Crap Then Lift the Same Shit Over Your Head Again.
I decided to mow my lawn instead. Little did I know I’d have a Painstorm, mostly psychological, of my own.
See, for years, I owned
I had two of these mowers, actually. Kilt ’em. Kilt ’em both dead.
The reason I had gotten electric instead of gas-powered was I wanted to reduce my carbon footprint.
Lies.
In truth, I got electric because yanking on the cord of a mower that won’t start makes me want to put a foot through somebody’s ribcage.
But after I broke two electric mowers in five years, I decided I would really be ecologically conscious.
Lies again.
In truth, I was just being cheap. I bought
Every blade of grass gets cut using only human energy! Problem is, human energy is crap. I mean, it would cut, but not very much and certainly not anything high. I have a special mixture of grass and weeds in my yard that proved too much for the Silent Scott. I’d go over a tall weed—it would flatten out under the blade and pop right back up to full salute.
Every time he saw me out there grunting behind my “mower”, my 70-year-old neighbor insisted on lending me his self-propelled beast of a gas-powered machine. But I was terrified I’d hit a rock or a stump and mess up his blade, or worse.
So Tuesday, after work, I put on my Big Girl Panties, stopped by Home Depot, and picked up
The cheapest one they had, natch. It came mostly assembled. All I had to do was attach the handle and the rear wheels and add some oil. I’m handy. I had no problem with the mower.
I did, however, have a problem with
“Just turn, and click—you’re ready to go.”
Lies.
In truth, turn, and click, and nothing comes out. Turn the other way, and click, and still nothing. Turn really forcefully, and curse at it, and click, and nothing. I must’ve messed with that thing for half an hour. And it was starting to get dark. If there had been a ribcage around that didn’t belong to my dogs, my foot would’ve been through it. I finally poured the gas into a glass measuring cup and transferred it to the tank.
I mooshed the little rubber button to get the gas to flow in, held my breath, and yanked on the cord. Raaarrrrrrr! It started up on the first pull! But it was cutting REALLY SHORT. I realized I needed to change the level of the wheels. Because I’d bought the Piece of Shit model, there was no lever to change the height. I had to take off every last wheel and reattach them in a different hole. Argh.
First wheel, done. Second and third, done and done. Fourth…fourth…fourth. Won’t. Come. Off. I was using the only tool I had: plier/wire snip combo thingy. I knew my neighbor would have a wrench or something, but I was afraid it was too late to knock on his door.
Lies.
In truth, my pride was saying, “You don’t deserve those Big Girl Panties! Turn the fucking bolt!”
After 20 minutes, I told my pride to shove it and tromped over to my neighbor’s house. Sure, he had an adjustable wrench. Even better,
That bolt came loose like nothing.
I’d like to say that I adjusted the wheels and mowed and everything was wine and roses. Truth is, two of the wheels kept falling off as I mowed. I had to keep stopping to reattach them, and one of the washers got lost in the process. At this point, it was 8:45 or 9:00, dark. My neighbors probably thought I was on meth.
But that grass got mowed! Those weeds got chopped! And I missed remarkably few spots considering that it was dark as pitch when I finished.
So what did I learn and gain from my Painstorm?
Adaptabililty…gas can nozzle doesn’t work? Use something else.
Humility…I should’ve asked my neighbor about 30 minutes earlier for the wrench.
Economics…spend the extra twenty bucks to get the adjustable mower.
Physics…I need to buy a pair of vice grips.
Wisdom…that sage of sages, Tim Allen, was right: sometimes you need more power.