It's only been twelve hours since I finished the first half of the front yard, sans grass seed, and I'm already eying the last and smaller half. My back is sore, my shoulders are tight from overuse, and my palms are sore with hard callouses, and I can't wait to get the pick ax back in my hand and start digging away at the next chunk of gravel filled yard.
I'm an addict. Somebody stop me.
Or better yet, come help me! I have extra shovels! Lots of dirt to move! Enough grass seed for another lawn! And a tree I want to buy! Yes Yes Yes! I just can't stop! It's like I don't remember the back-breaking labor of digging up packed gravel, or how the gravel dust forms a layer between the gravel and soil that turns into cement after the rain, or how frustrating it is to have to stop every other shovelful of dirt to move hunks of rock out of the way . . . or I just don't care because the end result is so worth it all the aching pain, gritty sweat, and teeth-gnashing frustration.
Sure you don't want to come help me?