showing skin

Vanity does not typically rule my morning routines. The day’s work dictates appropriate clothing, safety gear, and if I do anything with my hair, I get it off my forehead and neck. Pretty soon, some scissors held by my own two hands will take a whack or two. Frankly, I forget to brush my teeth after breakfast sometime (the dentist’s declaration last week, after a 2 year cleaning absence, that I have no plaque, does nothing but encourage getting on with the day).

So, today was a bit different. Hot enough to glance over my shoulder, checking on the dogs, and shower the nearby plants with salty spray. Water breaks supplemented with sipping from the rivulets running my nose. Wanting some beach waves and, yes, a tan, I decided to doubletime my outdoor tasks. On went the swimming suit top, and off went the t-shirt. Weed-wacking was going to work for me like never  before. First, I cut back a grassy hillside for better access to one pasture’s spigot.

Lower calves decoupaged with grass bits didn’t deter my plan for a tan; my top relatively still free of debris (yes, I applied sunscreen), I wacked on. Around to the covering for the septic holding tanks, whose covers I like to keep clear should they need to be opened. Cutting hard against the edges, several large mint-type plants came tumbling down. Next was a flowering plant similar to anise-hyssop. I briefly considered letting it remain. Just yesterday Michael had remarked on the wonderful amounts on insect life in our gardens. Indeed, the sunflower and sedum flower heads continue to host up to 15 bumblebees for any given snack hour, and the butterflies are clearly holding some sort of pollen-comparison conference amongst the zinnias.

But down it came anyway; a streak of tidiness makes me weed wack, mow and hand weed in a neat, zealous manner not yet experienced indoors. Roughly .00001 seconds later, several piercing sensations made me look at my green calves. A bunch of bees rose swarmed upwards to my now bulging eyes. Spinning wacker in tow, my left hand swiftly batted those attached to the concurrently positioned poison ivy bubbles on my legs. Then, thinking it best to abandon the area, I placed the wacker on the ground and sprinted, curlycue fashion, until I reached the house. Pausing to make sure that I was still capable of breathing (no Anaphylaxis in this body, yet), I dashed upstairs. Only one bee had managed to tail me; I busted into my very personal African dance imitation, distracting him for enough time to don appropriate attire.

Skin at least clothed, I returned to the hive activity area. Mating locusts skirted my head, bee-lining their attempts at copulation across the pasture and out of the frenzy. I considered my options. Leave the wacker where it lay and retrieve it once the bees had vacated or gone to bed. But unfortunately it was still running. How could I, a person who pledges allegiance to the less-oil lifestyle, leave a 2-stroke engine running for the hell of it? It was a time to face my own stupidity (why didn’t I turn it off as I was setting it down?).

Thankfully, this was easy. I knelt and approaching from a downhill side of things, slowly reached up to grab the wacker and pull it back towards me. In thirty seconds I was out of their hubbub and back on track for the remaining weed wacking areas. Still not sure if I learned the lesson on appropriate attire. The desire for a tan plus a hot summer day push my analytic mind into a different sphere. I recall the couple of years I called Brazil home and the beach my lunch spot. I remember life glowed in an equatorial collage of sun, sand and bodies. Coconut water quenched my thirst and beach snack vendors squawked into my thoughts.

“Linguini!”, Michael yells at me. “Are you drinking enough?” I smile and nod, deciding to take a break anyway. No coconuts here, but a tall glass of pear juice preserved from last fall’s fruit pleases me just as much. Back in shorts and bikini top, I decide on a compromise: acknowledge the limited areas that such an outfit is safe, and stick to them. And I’ll put weed wacking the septic tank top back on the chores list for, hmm, winter?