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<p class="wp-block-paragraph">I’m on my hands and knees, working in the backyard. I rarely engage in any sort of gardening work, and by “rarely,” I mean never. I still have bitter memories of being forced to do yard work at my parents’ house as a kid, grabbing at the little weeds sprouting out of the cracks in the front walk, feeling the sweat gush out of me as I yanked and pulled and twisted. Every weed I uprooted just made me think about the countless more I still had to deal with. I knew many people who adored tending to their land, my mother included, but I was not among them. All I ever wanted to do was go back inside and watch MTV. The only satisfaction I got from doing the job was when parents paid me after the fact. Even then, they’d still point out all of the weeds I’d missed. Gardening was a hobby for the sadistic, I believed.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Three back surgeries later, I had an all-too-convenient out to save myself from every getting my hands dirty again. My wife and I now have a nice-sized yard that requires care, and for the past 20 years, that work has been handled either by landscaping pros, my green-thumbed mother-in-law—who would often come by our house unannounced just to garden—or my wife. I myself never bothered going out there. After all, I had a bad back: a legitimate alibi that men like me love nothing more than to abuse. I used to mow our law myself right after we moved in 20 years ago, but with only a push mower at our disposal, I quickly deemed that job far too taxing.</p>