Power trip

I expect a little respect today in honor of my new status as Mace-Wielder and Chief Gesturer at Chairs, Mistress of the Mower, and Sod-Carrier to the Stars. Like Moses when he came down from the mountain with a countenance so bright he had to cover it lest people be blinded just by glancing at him, I have experienced sheer unadulterated power that has left me all aglow.

My first encounter with unspeakable power occurred on Saturday, when I was called upon to join the crack Faculty Marshal squad and wield a mace at Commencement. As Second Substitute Marshal, my primary function was to gesture meaningfully at chairs, but none of the meaningful gestures I had perfected in practice turned out to be much use in the event, where my ostensible followers were distracted by moms and dads with cameras and college officials handing out diplomas. Still, I did relish my one moment of real power: when the time came for the maces to be placed in the official mace stand, I, as carrier of the smallest mace, was the first to place the mace in the stand and therefore had to power to determine which direction all four maces would face. Now that's power. Next year, though, I'm lobbying for a switch to light-sabers, which would provide a bit more spectacle and also look appropriate with our Vaderesque regalia.

Then came Sunday, when a new sort of power coursed through me, a power I can feel even now in my back and shoulder muscles: for the first time this spring, I pushed the reel mower around the front yard. Every ounce of the power required to make that manual mower move must come from me: my muscles propel it, my hands tug on the long weeds that get stuck in the reel, my feet direct its attention to the irregularly shaped bits of lawn around the flower beds where the riding mower can't reach. No gas, no pollution, no nasty noise drowning out the songs of birds, and the next day after mowing, my muscles still feel the burn. That's power--or maybe just muscle spasms.

But that's not all: my final encounter with power occurred when I was called upon to become a Sod-Carrier to the Stars, or make that the Star of my flower garden. The rain finally stopped long enough to allow my daughter to plant her annual Mother's Day Flower Garden, and this year she had big plans to cut some sod out and make room for more flowers and herbs than she's ever planted before. She will not allow anyone to help with the sod-cutting or planting, but I--I alone!--was permitted to carry the chunks of sod up the hill and plop them down on a bare spot where we'd like to see some grass take root. Yes, I am the Chosen One, I thought as I slogged each chunk of sod up the hill. No one else is empowered to carry this sod! The power was simply intoxicating.

Today I still bask in that intoxicating power, and as the week throws me its usual petty annoyances, I shall gesture meaningfully at them and proclaim, "Begone! I have wielded the mace, pushed the mower, and carried the sod! Behold the glow of my power!"

Then again, maybe that's just sunburn, in which case never mind.