Mowing the lawn.

When I do it routinely — in season — it’s therapeutic. And yes, at my age, the body pays for it with soreness for a couple of days afterward.

I can already hear my wife: “Why do you like it so much? Why not just hire someone?”

Good question. I don’t have a great answer.

I just like it.

Cue the eye roll.

I like the smell of freshly cut grass — that sharp, green scent that feels like summer doing push-ups. I like the way the mower hums to life, the steady vibration in the handle, the way the blades carve neat lines into what was, moments before, mild chaos.

It’s work. Sometimes hard work. Sweat-on-the-back-of-your-neck kind of work.

But it doesn’t feel like work.

Not to me.

This last year, I actually got into striping the lawn. After the mow, I lightly water the grass and — like the fake lawn-care influencer I pretend to be — I snap a photo and upload it to all my socials with a witty catchphrase and the song ‘Hard Work’ playing in the background.

Always on a Sunday morning. I’m up early. The neighborhood is still asleep. I throw on an old pair of jeans and head to the garage, monster Yeti cup filled with ice and soda — cold, sugary caffeine to slake the thirst and the heat. The garage opens, and there I am, standing at the ready. Cue the theme from The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly in my head.

Will it be the line trimmer or the rotary lawn scissors today? No matter — perfectly crisp edges set the stage. Sidewalks, flower beds, driveway borders — all must bow to the tyranny of symmetry. The Weedhacker awaits, sharp and threatening, ready to slice down any rebellious grass that dares to cross its path.

Next up: the trusty McClane reel mower. Ten rotating blades, powered by a mighty 8-horsepower Briggs & Stratton engine. You can literally hear Tim ‘The Toolman’ Taylor grunting in approval. Grass is sliced. Stripes are formed. Rhythm begins. Like Gregory Hines in Tap, there’s music in it — back-and-forth, turn, overlap, perfection forming under my hands.

The blower comes next. Leaves, stray clippings, dust bunnies — nothing survives the gust of my fury. Sidewalks clean, driveway immaculate, curb flawless. Even the neighbor has emerged, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Judgmental? Perhaps. Or maybe he’s secretly impressed.

Spike-soled lawn shoes make me stalk the turf, poking holes like some deranged yard wizard. Aeration makes all the difference. Maybe that’s why he stares.

A sprinkle of granular lawn fertilizer, applied with chemist-level precision followed by a light watering. 

Vi-o-la. Lawn perfection achieved.

Mower back in the shed. Blower hung neatly. Tools wiped and shining. Gloves on the hook. Sun on my shoulders. Sweat drying. Soda empty. And just for a moment, the world is right. Stripes sharp. Edges crisp. Lawn aerated. Fertilizer settled. Judgment absorbed.

That weekly mow just hits right. Just me, my tools, and my thoughts.

Man, I love the smell of chlorophyll in the morning. Smells like… victory.

You can keep yoga.

I’ll take 87 octane and a pull cord.

There’s more waiting at https://xinkblotz.com. Telling stories, sharing thoughts, and drinking coffee. A blend of fiction, reflection, and whatever’s brewing – one post at a time.