Woman vs. Hedge

Today I mutilated my father in law’s (the Doc’s) bushes for his birthday (yesterday). They are some of the gnarliest plants I’ve ever seen: roots shooting in, out and around the ground like roller coasters; layers of dead, overgrown shrubs supporting random spurts of green vegetation; offshoot vines entangling nearby tree branches like foreign fingers wrapped around Rapunzle’s hair.

So, I cut them off; I sawed, I severed, slashed I pulled, I raked, I tore and trimmed until I stood next to piles of pruned branches that were taller than me. And then I stood back to see the small, seemingly lifeless, severed stumps that remained. If they weren’t such wicked bushes, and if I didn’t have the Doc’s express permission to massacre the overgrown hedge, I would have felt badly about what I had done. But, instead, I was proud.

The trimmings towered over my head, casting a long shadow in the morning sunlight and I felt a strange sense of strength and accomplishment. Maybe someday I will be able to manage a larger yard, even if the husband cringes at the thought. Yes, if I can conquer that labyrinthine Honeysuckle forest, I can conquer anything.