I didn't want a lawn, but it came with the house. I needed a house because we all need a place to keep our TVs dry. So I have a lawn. There it is. And it's big. Too big. But that's another story.
Since for the first 46 years of my life I had absolutely no interest in yard work or any inclination to spend countless hours on cosmetic farming, I did what many homeowners do: paid professionals to take care of it.
I mowed it, most of the time. OK, some of the time. The Mrs. is one of those people who derives strange pleasure from cutting grass, so it has become a race of sorts. She wants to mow the lawn. But in my mind, the sight of her mowing is akin to placing a billboard on the front lawn reading "Deadbeat Husband Within." Sexist? Probably. But it's the way I feel. So she mows every chance she gets and when stars align with weather, work and calendar commitment, I try to stop her. Unsuccessfully.
The funny thing is that when I see the neighbors' wives out mowing, I don't think badly of their husbands. But I can only assume that when they see her mowing, they assume I am a deadbeat loser who would rather be inside playing video games than doing something constructive like mowing.
Neurosis is an ugly thing.
So I mowed. And watered. But I refused to get involved in concocting the chemical cocktails the chemical cocktail manufacturers have been telling us we need to keep a green, weed-free lawn.
I had no knowledge of such chemical interventions. So I left that work to professionals.