The lawnmower rumbled like an agitated dog being woken from its sleep.

Brett pushed it lazily over the tall green grass sprouting on the front lawn. The sun was punishing, beating down on

him relentlessly. No cover, no place to hide, not one cloud in the whole sky. The summer had been brutal, record temperatures

for the last three weeks. Everyone was on edge, agitated, flustered, unable to

get comfortable.

Sherry had been on Brett's ass for five days to cut the lawn.

He want to know part of it, until today.

Yeah, today was the final straw where she didn't ask him this time. She just gave him that

look where her left eyebrow goes up a fraction of an inch, followed by a dead stare. From his vantage point, sprawled out on the couch, Brett knew exactly what it meant.

Cut the grass or were in another fight for the next ten days.

But grudgingly, Brett pulled his... in another fight for the next 10 days.

But grudgingly, Brett pulled his overweight 43-year-old body up off the couch,

adjusted his tattered green shorts, and slipped his unkempt feed into his dirty-looking flip-flops.

Brent was a slob and he knew it.

That's why he didn't want to cut the grass.

It was too much for him.

Life was easier lying on the couch, watching football, eating chips, napping.

Yes, cutting the grass was just too much effort at his age.

Brett hadn't always been like this.

Underneath the roll under his chin, there used to be quite a chiseled jawline.

Young, healthy skin, white teeth, an all-American smile that caused little creases in his cheeks

He was a good-looking kid athletic too

...