The Conversation

by elli on August 22, 2013

Me:  So today, I’m going to clean out the first (of two) garden plots, get rid of all the overgrown weeds, harvest everything that’s ready, tear out what isn’t going to bloom by first frost, and mulch all the exposed dirt to keep the bindweed from regrowing as fast.

My Body:  ARE YOU INSANE?  YOU CAN’T WALK TO THE CORNER WITHOUT WANTING A REST AND TO BE FANNED BY CABANA BOYS WITH PALM FRONDS.

Me:  I can totally do this.  It’s not a huge plot.  Two hundred square feet or so.

My Body:  AND YOU LAST WEEDED IT…WHEN, EXACTLY?

Me: ….

My Body:  THOUGHT SO.

Me:  I’m putting on pants!  I’ve got my garden stuff!  I’m getting in the car now!

My Body:  YOU HATE ME.  I ALWAYS KNEW YOU HATED ME.  YOU DO REMEMBER YOU’RE 42 YEARS OLD, RIGHT?  AND THAT GARDEN WORK ISN’T IMAGINARY?

(later)

Me:  Ow.  

My Body:  THAT’S RIGHT.  ENJOY THE BURN.  TOMORROW, I’M ON STRIKE.  ENJOY THOSE TOMATOES, TOO…IF YOU CAN RAISE MY ARM TO MY MOUTH WITHOUT MECHANICAL ASSISTANCE.  MAYBE WE CAN JUST LAY THAT HEAD ON THE COUNTERTOP AND GRAB IT WITH OUR LIPS, LIKE A TROUT OUT OF WATER.  SUCKER.

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