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David Spates My advice: Be a moron alone Being a moron when you're alone is bad enough,
but acting moronically when other people are present, well, that's
life's little way of ensuring that you don't turn into a complete
egomaniac. If Saturday morning was any indication, I
won't have to worry about my ego overinflating anytime soon.
The day started innocently enough with a list of domestic duties
to perform, with the first mowing of the new millennium topping
the list. Those of us with "experienced" lawnmowers
know the apprehension the first mow of the year brings. Our lawnmowers
have been sitting in the garage during the winter months collecting
dust and spider webs as the last mows' dried cuttings cling to
the undercarriages. We knew we should have drained the gas and
stowed our mowers, but fall and winter bring too many distractions
to worry about proper storage of lawn-care equipment. Besides,
we've never worried about proper storage, right? And our mowers
have always gotten us through yet another spring and summer,
right? So we don't sweat it. Until early spring. When our grass gets so long that it actually
waves with the springtime zephyrs. And there I am, standing over my mower in
preparation of the first pull of the new millennium. (I'll be
over this whole "first (whatever) of the new millennium"
soon, I hope.) Will it start or won't it? It never starts on
the first pull, not even during prime mowing time in the summer.
The first engine start of the season probably will take at least
seven or eight pulls of the ignition chord. Seven or eight seems
to be the Spates mower standard. Any more than eight and I start
looking for problems - like no gas in the tank, stuff like that. Houston, we have ignition at pull eight. My
mower roared to life with a choke, a small puff of smoke and
a gush of yellow, dried grass from the last mow of the old millennium.
The grass of 2001 would go down under the same unmerciful blade
as in the past eight years. Another year's ignition, and another
year of not having to buy a new mower. Or so I thought until I rounded the bend during
my third lap of the palatial Spates grounds. That's when the
mower stopped dead. If the grass is a little wet, sometimes the
undercarriage gets clogged with clippings and the motor shuts
down. That's what I thought it was. So I reached under and cleared
a handful of freshly cut spring grass. I then pulled the ignition
chord for the first restart of the new millennium. Nothing. Another pull. Nothing. Another pull. Nothing. Not even close. I became gravely concerned at pull 28, and
I started to wonder if I should change clothes before driving
to Lowe's for a new mower. It was about then that the wife pulled up
into the driveway from wherever it was she had been. I told her
the mower was dead, and that I might need to buy a new one. After
glancing at the mower for possibly three seconds, she asked if
I had noticed that the wire to the spark plug had come loose. And that's when I felt my head slowly turn
into a sucker, like in a Bugs Bunny cartoon. I don't know a lot about internal-combustion
engines, but I do know they work much more efficiently with the
help of a spark plug or two. After reconnecting the spark plug
wire, the engine started on the first pull. The wife, to her
credit, restrained her laughter until she went inside, no doubt
questioning whether my genetic material will provide any positive
aspects to our unborn child. As I completed the first mow of the new millennium,
I wished that I had been able to hide my bout with idiocy by
realizing my mistake alone. And it made me recall a similar flash
of dopiness. Thankfully, this one occurred without witnesses,
and I have never told a single soul about it until now. After
more than 13 years, the embarrassment finally has subsided. I was a junior in high school when I was taking
shorthand, which was held in the vocational building apart from
the main school building. I had never had a class in the vocational
building, and I was unfamiliar with its layout. I searched long
and hard for the restroom one day until I finally located it.
I was the only one in the restroom, but a strange sense of confusion
and worry ran through me. It wasn't until I left the restroom and noticed
a "Boys Room" sign on the next door over that I realized
my mistake. Yes, I had just unzipped in the girls room. Mortified,
I speed-walked to my classroom and took my seat. Looking back,
it may have been the absence of wall-mounted urinals or perhaps
the strange boxes above the commodes that tipped off my subconscious
alarm. Thankfully, no girls had come in while I was in there.
High school has enough embarrassment and awkwardness without
being dogged by stories of you hanging out in the girls room.
Despite my temporary stupidity, the bathroom gods were smiling
on me that day. Too bad the lawnmower gods weren't smiling on me Saturday. However, given the choice, I'd rather make a fool of myself in front of my wife rather than enduring the last year and a half of high school as a suspected bathroom-peeper. We all do stupid things. The trick is doing them alone or at least in front of someone who won't blab about it in the lunchroom. |