Dancing in the Dirt

I've only myself to blame.  In a family of political junkies, sports fans, free-thinking economists and generally all-around well-informed types, the only thing I am up on is the squoodgy lifestyle news.  Some of it is easy enough to ignore. The comparison reports on Easter hams don't bother me, since someone else will be cooking one this year, and one salt lick is pretty much like any other anyway.  

But ever since overpopulating my neighborhood with cucumbers last summer,  I pay attention to gardening news, even the distressing news that competitive dressing--and I don't mean side-dressing, aka fertilizer--has sashayed through the garden gate.  

According to the Wall Street Joutnal's  Off Duty section:  Many people who garden enter a creative fantasy mind-set, even while pulling weeds and digging flower beds, and they want to dress the part. 

Dressing the Part, Wellfleet Style

I don't have time to speculate on the creative fantasy mindsets (delusional fugue states) of these gals, but dressing the part, it seems, involves bespoke jodphurs, high-end Barbour jackets, and $500 gardening boots.  In other words, add a shotgun and you'll be all set for a shooting party at Downton Abbey.  Or a gallop on the moors. Don't forget the Hermes scarf (and if you need to ask the price, you don't deserve one).

Well, I'm in trouble, since my seasonal gardening costume is less garden party and more garden gnome. 

And I fear my scuffed and faded 30 year old Wellies are just not up to the mark, old chap.  

Future Compost

Maybe my creative fantasy mindset needs a jump start, but I don't see how a pricy equestrian get up is needed to deal with my annual spring clean-up. The only creative fantasy I indulge in is figuring out what would happen if I tried to burn the leaves in situ.  Since what I imagine is a forest fire tearing through the neighborhood, I veto that scenario, and grab the rake.







The WSJ article goes on to quote the manager of the $500 boot company:   "Everybody's secret wish is to transport themselves to a more romantic era and have Mr. Darcy call them while they're picking the flowers."

Romantic era, my ass.  Romantic error, more like.  When I think about the past I don't see myself swanning about like Lady Muck, I see myself grubbing about in the muck.  I'd be the one milking the cows, picking the peas, or feeding the pigs.  If I behaved myself, I might get promoted and be allowed to haul coal scuttles up and down the back stairs. 

Let Them Eat Mulch!

If I were wearing couture overalls, though, I'd probably find it better to engage in creative fantasy mindsets and secret time travel wishes.  Better an imaginary quadrille with Mr. D than a reality check. Better a nosegay from a beau, than a nose full of allergens. News flash to the overdressed:  gardening is dirty, sweaty work.  Think about it.  Culivating, weeding, planting, weeding, harvesting, weeding. Are you familiar with the term "stoop labor." Your hands get dirty, your face gets dirty, your clothes get dirty.  Your manicure (gasp!) will chip. You will find yourself whipping that Hermes scarf off your neck to wipe the sweat out of your eyes.  You will encounter mosquitoes, ticks, cabbage moths, tomato worms, powdery white mildew, slime mold, aphids . . . you get the picture.  Those shiny leather booties ain't gonna stay shiny long, little lady, if you are trundling compost in the back 40. Remember Marie Antoinette, and her famous fantasy mindset at Petit Trianon?  Remember what happened to her?

You'd be better off doing what we do in my neck of the woods: garden in the worn, faded clothes we wouldn't otherwise be caught dead in, and save the jodphurs for another fantasy lifestyle.  Hmm-mm-mm, where did I leave my riding crop?