When it's time to celebrate your promotion to a lower station, you'll want to find a truly festive wake. Listen for the silent echos and maintain your reckless caution. As they have yet to say in Latin, Tempus forgetaboutit.
...on your side of the fence. This year the grass is cutting teeth (without a smile). Last year drought, this year deluge. It's like each grass blade is a Sequoia tree on steroids. My walk behind mower knows it's a suicide season. Its motor knocks like a team of bill collectors on straight commission. My brush hog knows it's a lost cause. Its tractor is as dead as roadkill. I won't say I'm dreading the mowing job, but a backward colonoscopy might be more inviting. The small patches I tackled first are already on a third cutting. Might as well row down the south Atlantic ocean and across the Amazon river in a bath tub toy boat. Sure a fresh cut lawn is a sign of civilization. But this year I may have to settle for urban jungle. Looks like there's no escaping the inevitable. What's grown will cause me to groan. Nature is great. But right now, the only good grass blade is the one underneath my mower blade.
Few relationships are filled with such tranquil pandemonium. One partner is looking for a smooth road, while the other is blind to the potholes. Remember your uncapped limitations and always give of your best contrived reality. Love is a co-singularity wrought in a fair weather frenzy. I used to remain lost in discovery, but gradually learned to appreciate sunrise at dusk. No relationship can long endure as a revolving door stop, but a successful marriage is always held to a higher sub-standard.