The time of year when soil is embedded like a YouTube link under nails that are cracked and torn.
The time of year when the G-Man sneaks outside to lather my nose, ears, face, and neck with sunscreen, because his beloved — that’s me — is too busy crawling around on her hands and knees, digging and pulling and humming and offering song to the earth, to the sky, and any living thing in between, to notice anything as insignificant as pinking skin.
The time of year when his beloved — that’s me — sports more dirt and leaves and twigs than the G-Pup, and rocks a pair of
old as dirt vintage yoga pants with a worn tee that says Who’s Your Crawdaddy? underneath, well… a crawdad.
And by worn tee, I mean old as dirt!
It’s the way of May.
The G-Man suffers so.
There’s nothing for it now but to give you a close shot from the garden.
An Insta shot.
This would be from last year’s garden, because all we’re rockin’ right now is soil, potting soil, sheep manure, and little green shoots.
Orange on the inside, purple on the outside.
Sounds like a 1950s doo-wop pop group.
TGIF. You know what to do. Meet you in the bar in 3…2…1…