Saturday morning started like any other; the radio popped on to classical music, forty-five minutes later I rolled out of bed, brushed my teeth, meditated, ate my breakfast bowl of oats and granola and ground flax seeds and sliced bananas and strawberries topped with oat milk…
I won’t bore you with the details.
The only difference between this Saturday and any other is that I pledged to say “yes” to everything.
While preparing lunch in the kitchen…
“The outside lamp isn’t working,” my landlady said, suddenly appearing at the end of the counter. “It might be the timer. I think it needs to be reset. Would you—?”
“Yes! Right now!” I put down the knife.
“Maybe I could stand over your shoulder and read the instructions out loud.”
“Yes! Fantastic idea!”
“I need my glasses.”
“And a flashlight.”
“Yes! Take your time. I’ll wait!”
While eating lunch…
I turned on the television. Two men were talking about turf grass.
“Yes! I’ll watch this show!”
They stood on a swath of lawn facing each other wearing nondescript clothes. In fact, both men were nondescript; if I had to pick them out of a line-up, and all ten men were wearing the same beige pants and aviator sunglasses, I wouldn’t be able to single out those two. But there they stood, face to face at a golf club, discussing turf grass.
“What are the different types of grasses?” said the interviewer, the man on the left.
The man on the right answered in the most monotonous tone allowable by law: “You’ve got your Fescues and you’ve got your Bermudas and you’ve got your Zoysia and you’ve got your Kentucky Bluegrass and you’ve got your St. Augustine…”
The remote sat next to my hand. I could have changed the station. Due to the minuscule size of my cottage, I could have reached over and turned the television off. But I was transfixed. Two men discussing turf grass was so compelling, I lost all awareness of the food I was shoveling into my mouth.
“We should get our clubs and test this grass,” the interviewer said, and both men strode purposefully toward the camera.
The next shot, they were facing each other, on another swath of lawn, without their clubs.
“Which grasses are best for homeowners?” said the man on the left.
“You’ve got your Fescues and you’ve got your Bermudas,” on and on the man on the right droned. “For shade, you’ll want your St. Augustine.” His voice never rose or dipped. “In the south, you’ll want…” on and on, and I don’t know if it was the unfortunate way his pants were pleated, or how he stood with his right leg in front of his left, but he appeared to be—how can I phrase this delicately—extremely passionate about turf grass. It was hard not to notice his passion. It distracted me from the fascinating conversation, until the interviewer suggested that they get their clubs and try out the grass, and both men strode purposefully toward the camera.
The next shot, they were facing each other, on another swath, discussing bugs. “How do you know which pests you have on your lawn?” said the man on the left.
I won’t bore you with the details.
But I will share this trick: You squirt dish soap into a bucket of warm water, and pour it onto the spots where you see pest damage. In one to five minutes, the bugs will surface.
And this is where the action really picked up. Both men squatted onto their heels, and examined the turf.
It was mole crickets.
A whole show about turf grass! I sighed, watching the credits roll.
While deciding what to do next…
I had an hour to spare before meeting up with a friend. We’d made plans to catch “Murder She Said,” an Agatha Christie movie at the retro theater. I looked forward to the outing, although I doubted it could top the show about turf grass. With sixty minutes of free time, I faced a dilemma: should I work on my short story, or exercise?
“Yes! I’ll do both!”
I had wrenched my back earlier after reprogramming my landlady’s timer as she fumbled through the directions in the dim hallway, and on Saturdays I normally lift weights, but with those sore back muscles…
“Yes! I’ll lift weights!”
I bent over to fish the weights out from under the bed, and the muscles in my lower back went into spasm. I couldn’t move.
Lying on the floor contemplating the ceiling, I decided it might be a good idea to stop saying “yes” to everything.
To which I immediately said, “Yes!”
Oh Diane I can relate to your back issues…me too! Back spasms super suck! I literally feel your pain!!! On a different note I think you’re right to say yes in moderation. Good experiment though. Sounds like a pretty positive experience up to the back spasm.
Ack, sorry to hear you’re in the same boat, back-wise. This cold weather doesn’t help; it makes the muscles tense up.
Hilarious! All except your back going into spasms… hope you’re feeling better!
I am, thanks!
You crack me up… I have a growing list of honey-dos I can’t get myself to say yes to. But I did say yes to a walk and to making a batch of chili and to helping a colleague get un-stuck on a work assignment today. So I’ve felt quite busy, nonetheless. 😀
A walk is a must to say yes to. Three yeses, that sounds like a good day!
‘Yes, the ceiling needs painting!’ Or not. 😀
Here’s the trick: if you’re going to say yes all day, avoid all mention of the ceiling.
So great–hope your back is better though!
It is! As long as I don’t pull a carrot out of the crisper.
Huh. I have a post on saying “no” to everything. Or trying to. This is how I live, it’s ludicrous, really, on a long-term basis. For one day, though, it sounds fun and makes for a great blog post. Not to mention you got to learn about turf. Bonus. 😀
Glad your back is feeling better. That is something I can relate to.
Here’s the deal: you say yes to everything for a day and blog about it, and I’ll repost my first blog post.
Ha! Deal. I already say yes to everything. I need to say NO to everything. Wait…blog about it? Let me think on that…
I think you might be right about setting limits to your yes-saying, Diane. I would definitely say no to weights. 🙂
Wiser words were never spoken.