When a Southern Woman Rambles... by L. Avery Brown (great reads TXT) 📕

She walked triumphantly to the checkout line to pay for her eye drops, picking up a pack of generic OTC allergy pills along the way. By the time she made it to the line and stood there behind a farmer wearing good old-fashioned coveralls and a John Deere cap dirtied by years of honest labor, I was busy wrapping up my transaction with the pharmacy technician.

As I turned to make my way back across the breadth of the store, I glanced (maybe a little too long) at the woman who had helped to fill what turned out to be nearly 5 solid minutes of my day with a bit of humor and smiled at her. And in return, she flashed her I’m a real estate agent...let me show you something great today smile back at me never knowing that when she did so the first thought that popped into my head was of how she reminded me of Malcolm McDowell as Alex in the disturbingly graphic 1971 Stanley Kubrick film, A Clockwork Orange.

The moral of this particular tragic tale of beauty:

When you know your seasonal allergies 
are going into overdrive, 
it's best for forego the 
accoutrements of beauty enhancers 
until the time of the histamines has passed.  

Your shiny red nose and drippy-dewy eyes 
are all you really need...

(An homage to summer)

I love it when the seasons change especially when we step out of the chill of winter and into the bouncy warmth of spring with all those pastels and fields shifting from dull browns into soft blankets of green. And when the temperatures start to climb up during the day and don't fall into the 'still need an extra blanket' temperatures at night...I know summer cannot be far away.  

However, there is one thing that tells me 100%, without a doubt, that summer has arrived. And it has nothing to do with the sound of baby birds singing/crying (I'm not sure which is which in bird language) for food. Nor does it have anything to do with the fact that when I bake a cake, I have to open the window or it gets too hot in the kitchen. No. It has nothing to do with either of those things - although those are pretty good indicators.

What's more, it had nothing to do with the fact that the mercury soared above 85°F before the noon hour. Likewise, it had did it not have anything to do with the sound of children squealing in delight as they dashed around their yards jumping through sprinklers. 

Granted the aforementioned, are good indicators; however, for me, the first true sign that summer has returned to my beloved South has nothing to do with anything so...typical. 

Rather I know summer had ‘arrived’ the moment I spot the season’s first pasty-white, slightly overweight 50+ year old pair of ‘nekked man-boobs’ (yes, nek-ked...Southern speak for naked) jiggling and wibbling while the owner of said fleshy man-mammary glands sits astride his riding lawn mower and makes his way back and forth across the expanse of his front lawn, cutting down any blade of grass that dares grow beyond what he deems to be an acceptable height.  

Oh, yes, it is truly a site to behold. Quite a site indeed. One might liken the moment my eyes are ever-so-lucky enough to spot my first set of nekked man boobs to a little girl's dream of knights on steeds defending castles...until, my dream would be squashed like a fly stupid enough to have landed on my dearly departed grandmother’s countertop (as my grandmother was probably the fastest and most accurate fly swatter east of the Appalachians) because as soon as what I am seeing truly registers in my head, I feel an intensely painful sensation deep within my eye sockets. Then I feel the need to throw my hands to my eyes and lament for anyone and everyone to hear, ‘My eyes! My eyes! It burns! Lord Jesus, it burns! Make it go away!’     

You would think that I would figure it out by now that I'm in my forties. But there's something about that rhythmic hum of the engine of a lawnmower that always lulls me into thinking...this year will be different.  

But no. It never is. And the only person I have to blame for the painful etching of the moment in my memory is myself because I know better than to risk having my eyes look upon the blindingly bright white torso of one of these mighty weekend lawn-warriors. Sort of like how I know better than to stare at the sun with improperly shielded eyes during a solar eclipse because the intensity of the UV rays a corona emits will burn the retinas causing eclipse blindness. At least that’s what my 4th grade teacher Mrs. Eudy told me when I was 9. I also read about it in a NASA report years later.

However, neither Mrs. Eudy nor NASA mentioned anything about the damage that can befall a person who stares too long at the intense light which is reflected off a half-naked, pale white guy’s torso. Sure, it doesn’t fry the retinas like UV light but still it’s one of those images that stick around for a few minutes sort of like how the flash from a camera causes those annoying little dots. Perhaps someone ought to do a study about it.       

But I digress, like I said…I would think that by now I would know better because this happens to me every summer! And every year, I think that maybe this will be the year that I’ll be spared. Only I never am.  

Now let me be clear in saying that it is NOT just the eye blinding white skin that gets to me. Because there are plenty of men of all colors who will ride their mighty lawn mowers shirtless like ‘manly-men’ exposing their bare-chested flouncy-bouncy testosterone ta-tas and melon shaped beer bellies as if they were in their 20s even though they’re not…not by a long shot.      

Surely, you’ve seen one or two ‘nekked man-boob’ mowers... Maybe they’re in your neighborhood... Maybe your father or grandfather was or still is one of them... Maybe your husband is one... (If so, I’m sure you’ve told him ‘Oh, for Pete’s sake…at least let me put some sunscreen on your back—to wit, he probably goes with his usual response of, ‘Nah, I’ll be fine’.  And you reply, ‘Well don’t complain when your back gets red as a lobster’).  

Or maybe... *GASP*YOU have sat astride a 20 horsepower grass taming machine sporting nothing more than your shorts, shoes and maybe a ball cap! Surely if you are one of these 'entirely TOO comfortable in their skin' fellas, it's because until this moment you just didn't realize the emotional distress you were levying on the whole of your neighborhood- nay -the world, for the resulting effect ripples much like a wave upon the vast sea of humanity as you zip merrily along up and down your lawn trying to create the perfect 'field of dreams'.

But there are a few (a lucky, rare few) who have not had the opportunity to experience this sometimes weekly display of fleshy manliness. And for those of you, it would be terribly impolite of me if I did not share with you what I have learned so that one day, should you find yourself looking at a pair of jiggly male nipples coming towards you on a hot summer's day while you're minding your own business, you will be able...hopefully...to look away before it's too late!  

Imagine if you will the following: It’s a typical Saturday. Billy Bob, 54, and his wife Patty Sue, 52, are going to do a little yard work--

Billy Bob steps outside wearing his faded black, holey, and older than his children Bon Jovi World Tour 1986 concert T-shirt. To this day he will still tell the story of the night he got that shirt which he doesn't call old. No. He calls it vintage. Oh, that concert...he was such a virile stud back then and he knew that shirt would be a total babe magnet because it fit tightly across his athletic chest and the sleeves accentuated his impressive guns. However, that was a l—o—n—g time ago and while his shirt is still tight, it’s not tight in the same places because Mother Nature rearranged things so that all those firm muscles on the top half of Billy Bob’s torso, which seemed to defy gravity years ago, have sunk to his waist line like a deflated soufflé.

You know, personally I think Mother Nature gets a real kick out of doing things like that. After all, wouldn’t you think it a hoot if you had the ability to sic gravity on Princess Perky Breasts so that her knockers wound up looking like Daisy Droopy-boobs? I’m just saying…       

Next, draw your eyed to Billy Bob’s shorts…loose fitting khakis he likes to wear because as he says they and I quote, "let a little air in down there so things stay cool" which apparently is a plus in Man-Land. Unfortunately, he doesn’t realize that the roominess is probably thanks in part to the fact that the firm caboose he once had has all but pulled out of the station. Maybe it migrated northward and stopped when it got to his belly, because that’s where all the beer eventually winds up.       

Though to be honest, that’s a total guess since I don’t really know where a man's butt goes as he ages, which is weird because the phenomenon of rear-end vanishing seems to happen to all men…eventually.  Of course, if you were to ask some of the older fellows who live south of the Mason-Dixon line where I have lived my whole life about how their beer bellies and flat hind-ends seem disproportionate to one another, they’d probably laugh and tug up their pants a tad as they’d say, ‘Haw! That ain’t fat! Naw! That there’s a right good shed to keep the important parts out of the weather!’   

And last, let your eyes wander down to his feet where you'll find the shoes guys like Billy Bob like to wear. Oddly, this last piece of his yard safari attire varies depending on the age of the safari guide. You must understand that in Billy’s younger days, he was more likely to wear flip-flops or let his tootsies go au natural, but as he grew older, he decided to opt for more secure and decidedly darker footwear. 

Let’s take pause for a moment to ponder this observable fact. Think long and hard about the last 50+ year old man you’ve seen working in his yard. Was he wearing sturdy shoes with thick soles sort of like what waitresses wear? Or was he wearing dark strappy sandals with socks - but not just socks…dark, above the ankle socks? (Why does this happen? Honestly, what on Earth can make an otherwise sane individual do something so very odd as to wear black