The I Told You So Syndrome

Just as the temperature on the thermometer edged over 103 I had an epiphany.

I looked at my wife and said, “I’m going to mow the lawn.”

She looked at me with the concerned wife look and replied, ” It’s too hot to be outside. Why don’t you just relax?”

I pondered her requested and retorted.

” Honey, heat does not affect men the way it does women. That is why we are the grill masters at cookouts. Furthermore, dating back as far as the cavemen, we men have braved the heat
to be the hunters, gathers, providers, and lawn care specialist that have made this world habitable and beautiful. The foliage must be cut back and I am the man to do it. Now stand back, woman, the Lawn King must do his work.”

She curled up on side of her lip, raised her eyebrow, sighed and let me leave the dwelling.

I confidently went the backyard shed to obtain my machine of mowing destruction.

Usually, my 4 dogs are jubilant when I venture to be in their presence. This time, they lay in the shade and don’t approach. After each of them looked at each other for a minute, my precious chihuahua comes up for a little chat.

She says, ” es muy caliente, señor.”

I reply, ” are you talking to me?”

She turns to return to the other 3 dogs and says under her breathe,” No. No. Yo no dice nada….pinche loco.”

I return to my quest.

I slide the shed door open and the stale heat hits me. I begin to sweat. No problem. I pull out the mower and start it up and begin to mow.

:15 minutes into it- sweat is getting into my eyes.

:30 minutes in-my shirt and shorts are sticking to me like spandex.

:45 minutes in- my shoes are squishy from the sweat running down my legs into them.

:60 minutes in- my skin feels like it is baking.

I put the mower back. Slide the door shut. Glance at the dogs…..they shake their heads in unison. And begin my trek back inside.

My vision is kind of blurry as I retrace my steps to reach the oasis of air conditioned coolness that lies behind the front door.

My legs are weak.

Is the front door really there? Or is it just a mirage ?

I turn the handle and collapse into a heap onto the tile floor that covers the entry way. I am covered in sweat and grime.

I glance at my wife, who is sitting on the sofa, ice tea in hand ( with an umbrella in it). She glances and says,

“Awfully dramatic, don’t you think? Do I need to say “it”?”

I reply in a gruff, dehydrated dry voice, “No, I will say it. You told me so.”



23 thoughts on “The I Told You So Syndrome

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