Ski bibs

It’s the last week of August, and this afternoon, Andrew appeared in his ski bibs.  No, it’s not snowing here.  It’s not even cold.  The high today was 89.  No, there’s no odd sporting competition that involves pretending to ski through the Ozarks.  Actually, Andrew was doing the yard work.  He had finished both the riding and push mowing and he was ready to tackle the weed-eating.  He was working really fast, because a friend had invited him to spend the night, and he couldn’t go the friend’s house till a certain list of responsibilities (including mowing the yard) was done.

He wears his ski bibs to weed-eat, because, in his words, “Nothing can get through these.”  Weed-eating is fraught with discomfort.  Not only do your arms and back get a workout just from holding the implement, your whole upper torso vibrates till your head starts to rattle.  Of course, 14 year-olds are pretty robust and can deal with all that.  The worst of it, the part that’s unavoidable and painful, is that little things like rocks and clods of dirt and sticks and stuff like that tend, with no warning whatsoever, to fly up to sting your legs.  Sometimes they attack with a vengeance, so Andrew has developed the habit of wearing his ski bibs as armor when weed-eating.  They’re nylon, so whatever hits just slides off, as opposed to jeans, which, while also a fairly good defense, tend to attract debris and leave a person with a ring of grass stain and dirt in the ankle-to-shin range.

At least he’s not wearing his ski goggles, as well.  I know someone who claims they are a most effective tear-preventative when cutting onions.   = )

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