Today was the perfect day to mow the lawn. The sun was shining; not too hot, not too cold; the sky was full of puffy, white clouds; the birds were singing; the insects were buzzing. It was also the perfect day to plant the new flowering trees Sue had bought, the perfect day to weed-whack, the perfect day to get a lot of long overdue yard work done.

In short, it was the perfect day to play golf.

A good-looking lawn or a relaxing game of golf? One would be the same stupid, useless, frustrating, unrewarding repetitive task over and over again until I’m ready to scream, the other is just yard work. Decisions, decisions.

Why is it that the same days that are perfect for yard work are always the same days that are perfect for not doing yard work? There seems to be a huge flaw in the cosmic plan when the same day that is good for going to the beach is the exact same day that it’s good to edge the sidewalk. In a perfect world, we could mow the lawn on rainy days.