This past weekend, I finally heeded the temptation to dig in the dirt, hit the garden center, and do something with the wasteland also known as our front flower beds. On Saturday I dragged the trash can to the front yard, snapped on my gardening gloves, and entered the hazardous waste that had built up in the flower beds. Who knew so many leaves could pile up in such a small space? I discovered the garden hose, hiding behind the bird bath, coiled up and choked to death by a several-inch thick layer of suffocating leaves. (Mental note: add “new hose” to the shopping list.)
I also discovered that bending over, standing up, bending over, standing up, is a hell of a hamstrings workout. The backs of my legs were so sore by Saturday evening that I whined endlessly, sneakily soliciting a massage from Gary. My lower back complained too, and I had to begrudingly admit that too many skipped workouts has taken its toll, when basic yard work leaves me hobbling, shuffling, grunting, and longing for an ice pack.
Undaunted, Gary and I headed to the garden center Sunday morning, with me leaning on the cart and using it like a walker. The two of us are quite dangerous in a garden center, convincing each other that we need three (or more) of everything, a vast assortment of shrubs, rose bushes, flowers, vines, and anything else remotely resembling a live plant, whether we have the space for it or not. We eventually checked ourselves and limited ourselves to what may actually live and fit in our front yard, played musical plants for a while, switching out colors and species, until we settled on a color scheme, grabbed mulch and garden soil, and headed for the register.
When we got home, I reminded Gary that my back was practically spasming, so I sat on the front step while he planted the flowers, layered the mulch, and gave the babies their first watering. Naturally I played armchair warrior and tried to call out instructions and ask questions, but each one was met with a dirty look from Gary and then finally, “Don’t you have to go work out or something?”
Hmmm, someone is not appreciative of my supervisory skills or gardening input. I caught onto that when he accidentally-on-purpose sprayed me with the hose.
I caught him talking to the new flowers later in the evening. Whether they answered him or not, I didn’t ask; I didn’t want to be sprayed with the hose again.
*Purple lantana image courtesy of Seeds*