It is before 6 a.m. on a Saturday morning. As I do every morning I stepped on the bathroom scale and then looked in the mirror. On some mornings the news is worse than others. Today was a bad news day. I know the 2 and 4 a.m. moonlight walks with a diarrheal dog didn’t help how I looked. And I gained two pounds overnight.

sarah on black rug

Poor little dog post-bath.

At that moment the thought occurred to me that I may be on the downhill side of life. And what’s weird is that I can’t even remember becoming a grownup. I mean, I still find myself wondering what I want to be when I grow up. I still get these ideas that I can pursue all sorts of careers and passions.

“I want to be a professional figure skater!”

“I’m going to start a rock-and-roll girl band!”

“I think I would make a really good private detective!”

“I know! I’ll go to medical school!”

Reality intrudes most days. The fact is that I have a house with a big yard and garden. I have three cars, two dogs, eight pet chickens, progressive lenses, 27 magazine and two newspaper subscriptions and four sets of dinnerware.

Yes, in fact, I do call it dinnerware. When was the last time you heard someone other than a grownup say the word “dinnerware?” Never, that’s when.

The sad fact is, the train has left the station on my being a figure-skating-rock-and-roll-private-detective-doctor.

I’m not going to reveal my age, so let’s just say I’m past the age at which someone would consider me to be a kid. I know, for example, that you would look at me and think “Yup, she’s a grownup.” And the signs are all there.

I know I’m a grownup because I’m the one who cleans up the dog vomit at 4 a.m.

I know I’m a grownup because wearing a string bikini is no longer an option. (You’re welcome.)

I know I’m a grownup because I sometimes turn on closed captioning to watch True Detective.

I know I’m a grownup because I have a reminder on my calendar to change the heating and air conditioning air filters on the first of the month. It’s a paper calendar.

I know I’m a grownup when I hear rap music.

And weeds. Weeds make me know I’m definitely a grownup. No child voluntarily weeds. But here I am, a grownup, wide awake before 6 a.m. on a Saturday morning with the great big to-do list sitting on the kitchen counter that says in big capital letters “PULL WEEDS.”

Oh yes. I have grownup written all over me. I think I have a t-shirt in the back of my closet that says “Keep Calm. I’m a Grownup.”

You know what? Even if I’m a grownup I should do something to make weeding fun—or at least make weeding funny.

Two weeds walk into a bar…

prostrate spurge

prostrate spurge

Hey, I think this funny weed idea has legs. Already we have some funny weed names. Quakgrass. Nutgrass. Prostrate spurge. Creeping Charlie. Pigweed. Henbit. Hairy bittercress. I know someone was poking fun when they were naming these things.

What else can make weeds funny? Limericks. Limericks are funny.

There once was a gardener in Maine

Who set out to kill the purslane.

Instead of a weed she killed her best steed.

And now she’s considered insane.

No wait. That’s not funny at all. Let’s try again.

There once was a gardener in Beed

Who set out to kill a big weed.

Instead of a hoe he used his big toe

And now the whole garden’s weed seed.

Hummmm. Maybe this better?

There once was a gardener named Cass

Who set out to kill some quakgrass.

Instead of a hoe she used her big toe

Of course she is now on her ass.

Oh well. Time to go be a grownup, drink coffee and pull some weeds.

Now let’s see…two weeds walk into a bar…

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8 Comments

  • Carol says:

    Funny. I know I’m older than you. I have decided after being a grown up, I will start a second childhood. Of course, in my second childhood I will still have to weed, but only because I want to. I won’t try to write a limerick, but I will share I think I have a weed in my garden called Devil’s Beggartick. Now, who named in that?

  • M A says:

    You need to get out and “weed” more often! This is hilarious.

  • Dee Nash says:

    That was pretty damned funny. Did you hear the one about the rabbi, the priest and the weed? No, wait, that’s not right. ~~Dee

  • Didn’t you feel like a grownup after you had a kid? I didn’t either. I don’t feel like a grownup, I just feel like the disjunct between my mind and my body is getting greater. In my mind, it hasn’t been that long since I graduated from college. I am always shocked when I do the math. But my body definitely knows I’m not a kid anymore. And if I’m not a kid, I must be a grownup. I guess.

  • Christina says:

    I always look upon weeding as therapy time for your insides and out (eat and harvest them as you go!) and think how pretty they will look presented on all that dinnerware! We could start a dinnerware library and then we can have infinite sets to use (I feel good now knowing I’m not the only one with all these weird thoughts and habits!) See you almost are a doctor/therapist.

  • Layanee says:

    I am trying to embrace ‘being a grownup’. I think I will go order one of those very popular adult coloring books! Wait, I can just go grab one of my granddaughter’s kid coloring books. Oh, and I read that as ‘Harry Bittercress’. Stop calling Harry a weed! Very entertaining.

  • Diane says:

    Robin, I feel your pain. No, I am not up walking a precious pooch, just stuffing the car with market goodies every Saturday morning at 4 AM. Progressives have been a way of life for more than a decade, and most garden/gravel projects take a toll on my body. Still 35 in my head, I have regular talks with my body, none of which make any difference.
    Wish we lived closer, would love to admire/compare our weeds. xo

  • Vickie says:

    I miss your posts, Robin. What has your summer been like?

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