Freudian Lawn Job

I accidentally drove over my ex-husband’s lawn when I dropped the kids off yesterday. Not his whole lawn—just the edge of it right by the driveway. I’m sure he noticed—my ex was meticulous about lawn care when we were married to the extent that I was forbidden to mow the lawn. (Thank God.)

I didn’t even notice that I was on the grass until I exited my vehicle, and he was already outside. I’m kind of not very aware of the edges of my vehicle, as evidenced by the scratches and dents I collect going in and out of my own garage, which, let’s be honest—my ex probably notices as well. (Note to self: actually call body shop this week.)

What’s even worse is that this was not the first time I drove across my ex’s front lawn. Nor was it the second time. I pretty much drive over his lawn every single week, which might account for his taciturn attitude. We were both conflict avoiders, and his silence blankets both of us, so I don’t say I’m sorry, though I want to.  

I want to explain that the reason I always nick the grass is that I am trying too hard to be accommodating.  I am compulsively early, and at least a quarter of the time I arrive  to the drop off before he does. I want to make sure my ex has plenty of room to pull into his garage, so I stay to the left, only just a little bit too far over.

I am aware that this used to be my side of the garage and therefore driveway, but since I left, my ex parks in the middle of the 2-car garage. Maybe that’s why I feel the need to scrunch over as much as possible.  He has rewritten his life without me, and when I intrude, I can’t seem to help make a mess of things, or at least, the lawn.  Maybe it’s just that since I left I don’t fit into any part of his life, not even the driveway.  My SUV reminds me that I don’t fit here—let’s be honest—that I never fit here. I was never good at staying inside the lines.  

Every week I vow that I will be more careful, and yet the next week, I again pull too far to the left and end up in the grass.  On good days, it is only the front tire. On bad days, it is both the front and rear.  Maybe I unconsciously do it to provoke him to finally speak. Maybe I do it to make him glad I left.  Maybe someday I will learn to keep my vehicle to myself, and stop driving over his lawn. (Oh, hell, even I know that is never going to happen.)





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