• tab When I walked up to the lawn mower in my garage, I was under the impression that I was only to mow the lawn and earn a few dollars in the process. What I was not aware of, was that I would be delving into the inner most parts of my soul, forcing out my demons, discovering my faults and strengths and perhaps by chance finding some social truth.
    tab This was my first time to mow the yard and I was slightly nervous. I casually brought the mower through to the backyard, casting my gaze to the piece of land that was mine for the mowing. I tried to start the mower, that is to say I pulled the lever for nearly half an hour before imploring my mother’s assistance. I was then forced to pull the diabolical lever again and again until I started the machine as my mother stood there to “keep the mower from wobbling too much”. I avoided ant hills and tackled foot high weeds, feeling confident in my ability to do what was considered a man’s job. I continued on my trek through the yard, humming Shania Twain’s I Feel like a Woman.
    tab My confidence was soon dashed; in the middle of the yard lay a swing set that time had left in shambles. But behold, under the mass of rusted metal lay grass that was determined to dwell there. I took in a deep breath, determined to annihilate such an audacious growth. However, as I moved the machine under the sitting swing that dangled above a particularly nasty patch of grass, I realized that I could not pull the mower back. The entire time I had been mowing the machine had been propelling itself forward, while I did the directing. Now, the machine was as determined to move forward, dragging me in its stead. I had two options, I could either kill the engine and risk taking another thirty minutes to an hour to start it up again, or I could dare grass stains and injury and travel under the swing. My hands wavered on the handles, about to turn it off. NO! I told myself. I will not let this machine best me, I will risk life and limb to protect this yard and no swing will get in my way. Before I could perform my act of heroism, my mother noticed my plight and told me that there was a way to control the beast manually. I nodded, laughing slightly at my ignorance. I released the self propelled lever and quickly dispatched the grass under the playground. I then moved to the final area of yard that I had been dreading, Junk Island.
    tab I approached the farthest corner of our yard that lay hidden in the shadows of a large tree. I called it Junk Island for it was an island of deserted items--a tree nobody climbed in, a red wagon that was filled with dirt and plants, an old lawn chair mattress, rocks and sticks that just lay about and other items that hinted of children. I dodged rocks and sticks, water guns and tree roots on my way. As I neared the mattress area, I grew bold and tried to pick up the lawn mower over the mattress, so I could destroy the grass growing on the other side. A deafening bang like a gunshot split through the air. The lawn mower had attempted to swallow the mattress, but it was too much for it, killing the machine. I knew I had failed, but my failure had reached farther than my own little world. In this simple act I have let down women across the globe. The feminist movement would be set back a century, and we would all lose the right to vote because I have killed the lawn mover. Oh dear, I thought as I picked up the monster and glanced at the mangled insides. I tried to fix the gluttonous beast, but it was too tangled. This will call for a sharp instrument, I told myself as I ran into the house.
    tab As I freed the mower, I realized that this wouldn’t have happened if a man had mowed this yard. As I found the scissors and walked outside, I had a moment where my mind broadened and a social truth came to light. There was a reason why this was my first time to mow the yard. It was because there was always a man to do it for me and he had never once ran over a mattress. It seemed to me, that there were just some things that men might do better, and I had no problem letting them do it. Some people might call this a sexist point of view, but I call it logical. I realize now that while I could probably do this if I must, I will not deny men the opportunity to show their manly skills. I smiled to myself as I cut the mattress free, sweating slightly, sexism could be rather nice sometimes.