He’s feeling better.
His lifting restrictions are still in place: He’s still not supposed to push/pull/twist/lift more than 10 pounds.
Nor is he supposed to breathe in dust/pollen/air-pollutants-stirred-by-yardwork.
But he feels… better.
Good, even.
Not quite normal (“Have you ever been ‘normal’?” I ask) but on a trajectory towards that inexact descriptor.
So, due to the much-improved state of his Frankentummy, and my blergh opinion of mowing the lawn (‘mow’ is not quite the right word for what I do to the grass; ‘chop’ would be more accurate, or perhaps ‘truncate’ — a lawn manicurist, I am not), we have mutually decided to lift his restrictions and that today — pushing the self-propelled machine *forward* only, and wearing a construction-style dust mask — he will mow the lawn.
“It’s supposed to be nice outside,” I tell him. “So I’m going to sit on the deck and supervise you while you mow.”
“Wait…” he says. “You’re going to sit on my dick while I mow…?”
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