I, however, was nowhere near a pool, or a cocktail. I was pulling up to a green belt—more of a dirt belt actually—that appeared to be the length of a football field.
It was intended to be an ornamental strip of foliage running along a row of newly built homes, standing tight and tall like soldiers on guard. But instead of a lush garden, the next kilometer was chock full of what appeared to be thick bamboo shoots. My father-in-law, the project manager, informed me they were actually weeds. Weeds I was about to spend my day in an all-out wrestling match with. Because, as he painfully pointed out, I had nothing better to do.
I bristled at the pointed honesty, but didn’t argue. He was right.
I sized up my first shoot, tried desperately not to think of the hours of tediousness ahead, and stepped into the ring.
Strength will rise as you wait, my daughter.
I had left my job two months earlier. It was a risky move considering I was the breadwinner for our little family at the time. And considering I take about as many risks as a panda bear.
But, you see, I was in trouble.