Maybe I didn’t think this whole thing out.

Sure, I knew I would be on my own. If you remember I once said dragging my Christmas tree down the driveway was my emancipation (remember I do live on two acres so it is a pretty long driveway). Well, you get where I am going with this…

It might be a bit more than I bargained for. Only truthfully – isn’t divorce in general?

So my friend Liz shows up in my driveway. A pickup truck backing into my driveway behind her.

“Look what I brought you,” she says.

At this point her buddy is drop shipping a Honda mower into my front lawn.

All I can think is, “look what you brought me?? Take it back!

I don’t want to mow these cavernous two acres! The most I want to do is watch the deer pass leisurely through while my chocolate lab Hazel jumps in unison with them. And perhaps, once a year, drag my dried out Christmas tree down the driveway in defiant feminism that I have achieved Gloria Steinam type divorce status.

No, I don’t want a lawnmower!

It’s no use. My friend Liz and her cohort exhaust themselves (yes, quite literally) mowing my overgrown two acres for three hours and then they pass the baton to me.

I am thrown back for a moment as I grab and yank upward to start the mower.

I got this, so I think to myself only it doesn’t start.

We try a few more times. I think I have Liz a bit scared.

Finally, the engine roars. I am thrust back to my childhood. The girl who grew up in rural, Northern Virginia outside metropolitan D.C. The girl who rode horses, milked goats, collected eggs, took care of rabbits and dogs and even mowed lawns.

Liz and her friend shuffle my new mower into my garage. They are physically exhausted. Me – not so much because they did the hard labor. I am emotionally exhausted.

Liz’s friend turns to leave. He looks wistfully at the mower he is leaving in my stead not quite ready to walk away from it.

“Should I name it?” I ask. “I feel bad. Almost like it’s too painful for you to part with it.”

“Yes,” he says. “You should name it.”

We banter back all three of us.

“Betty Lou it is,” I say.

I am not quite sure I am ready to keep company with Betty Lou alone. Though I am so grateful that she is now my co-hort on this two acre parcel. Just not sure I am prepared to party fully with her on it.

My oldest son comes home. He closes his car door and walks towards the garage.

“Meet Betty Lou,” I say.

It is a good plan I think to get him introduced to her first.

“Yeh,” he mutters. “Not sure I want to meet her.”

Me neither. After all, my husband never actually cut this grass himself sans a few select times. So why would I want to?

Because I have this friend named Liz who thought it was important enough, empowering enough, emancipating enough, emotionally separating enough to know that I needed a new friend in my life.

Meet Betty Lou!

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