Compliments from old people are my favorite.
You know they're not trying to get something out of it, and they're usually uninhibited enough to say exactly what they're thinking. Like the time a 63-year-old man told me I "exuded athleticism."
Or like yesterday, when I tried my hand at mowing the lawn for the first time ever.
Hey, I have four brothers. It would be a crime if I'd mowed the lawn with all those strapping boys around.
Thanks to what's apparently the worst drought this area has seen in like forever, our lawn was dead for the first month of living here. I was fine with that.
Then last week the skies opened and despite all we'd done to neglect our yard, it turned green and grew a foot.
So I called mom.
"How do you mow the lawn?" I asked.
Mom talked me through step by step as I rummaged around the garage for a gas tank, topped off the mower and revved the engine.
I may or may not have used the mower where a stump remover would have been more appropriate a couple times, but otherwise my first mowing experience was uneventful. No cleats required, although I struggled a few times against inertia on the slight hill next to our sidewalk. As I rounded out the last row, I realized I didn't know how to turn it off. My hands had been glued to the handle since I first yanked the cord. I let go and it magically puttered off, and I realized I had two bulging blisters on my right hand.
I looked at the tall grass next door.
I went to Judy's porch and rang the bell.
"Can I mow your lawn?"
-"Aw sure, how much do you want for it?"
"I don't mind to just mow it. I'm already out here and sweaty cuz I just finished mine."
-"Yeah I saw you out there. You looked real cute."
I guess my mowing brings all the boys to the yard.