I climbed atop its gleaming rusty frame, queen of my very own yard maintenance universe, and cranked that baby into motion.
Everything was going well until, to my horror, I realized I had missed one tuft of grass in my hurry.
Determined to correct the error, I slammed to a screeching halt and yanked the shift stick to reverse, proceeding to back up.
"No biggie.", I thought. Things were going just peachy.
The sun was shining, the birds were singing, I was moving slowly backwards and life was good until I realized that, somehow, my original course of motion had veered.
I was going to miss the patch of grass! AGAIN!
Frantically, I spun the miniature steering wheel in one jerky motion. Panicked. As though I were captain of a ship lost at sea, throwing my weight into the helm, determined to save my crew.
And that is how dad found me.
Stuck. In reverse. Desperately crying for help while circling the same piece of grass that I had so ardently been trying to mow in retrospect.
Like I said: I was born for greatness.
At least that's what I told myself when I was finally pulled from the runaway machine and sentenced to a lifetime of servitude behind a push mower.
And sometimes, in the quiet moments of dusk, I can almost see that sinister mower sneering at me in the darkness.
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