Eek! Gardener's tan! The embarrassment of it. A tan that
starts above the sock line, and below the elbow. You do not want
to be caught naked with a gardener's tan - it's a very bad look. My
brother, who is a real gardener, has had gardener's tan for years -
dead white feet, and a skin burned black above the sock line by the
Queensland sun. He's been the butt of family jokes since forever
because of his weird tan, and now I'm getting it too.
I've had to learn the hard way. Socks are an essential part of the
gardener's uniform, otherwise your shoes fill up with dirt. When
we moved to the country I doubt that I owned any socks (except for my
Christmas socks, which play "Jingle Bells").
Now I have lots of socks, lots of shorts, and a weird tan.
To say nothing of all the nicks and scratches on every visible body
part. Weeding under a rambling rose is no easy task. Wayne
the gardener had advised on the use of hay as a mulch around the
rambling rose. I guess the bit I hadn't figured on is what hay
basically is - dried wheat. I now appear to have a mini wheat
crop sprouting under the rose, and a thorny weeding problem. The
solution was to lie on my stomach, and wriggle in on my elbows, so I
could get at the wheat. Now I'm covered in scratches, and Mr. S is
complaining about the ever-mounting laundry.
Time was when Mr. S just took my suits to the dry cleaners, and used
the delicate cycle on the washing machine once a week for underwear.
Alas, the delicate cycle is a distant memory. We are now heavily
committed to the Superwash. And of course it's all cotton.
Me, I would never iron a T-shirt, or a pair of shorts. Mr. S,
however, is a passionate ironer. He irons our pyjamas, and our
pillowslips, which I've always thought was folly. Now he's
ironing all my gardening gear, and getting depressed when I fail to
notice.
His gardening wardrobe consists of two items - a rugby shirt, and a
pair of workpants that he wears until they can stand up unaided.
Then it's into the superwash, and the cycle repeats itself, literally
and figuratively. I think he'd like me to do the same thing, but
a girl has to have some standards.
I had pictured myself in a Laura Ashley print and a Helen Kaminski hat,
meandering through my garden at dusk with a flower basket, picking the
occasional rose. Another city slicker dream bites the dust.
Gardening is daggy, dirty, and hard work.
Mr. S tells me that the WIRES folk have been around to our next door
neighbour to capture a black snake who'd picked quite the wrong spot to
work on his tan. Darn it - I'd been thinking that in the summer
maybe I could go barefoot, and get rid of the gardener's tan.
Foiled again.
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Change of Life 
