Don’t let May’s pain go in vain
I don’t know if Brian May got hurt while pruning, mowing, planting or weeding.
But here’s the medical update Queen’s legendary guitarist recently shared with fans on Instagram: “I managed to rip my Gluteus Maximus to shreds in a moment of over-enthusiastic gardening. So suddenly I find myself in a hospital getting scanned to find out exactly how much I’ve actually damaged myself. Turns out I did a thorough job …”
I’m sorry, what? I have friends who are overenthusiastic about their gardens. But I’ve never heard of overenthusiastic gardening. What exactly was he doing? Squatting and trying to uproot a sequoia with his bare hands? Lunges and atomic drops to level the soil? Did he strap a 50-pound bag of weed-killer around his shoulders like an electric Red Special and repeatedly crank down to one knee while poisoning dandelions and belting out, “Another One Bites the Dust”?
I have no idea. But until more is known, I refuse to mow my lawn.
Before I read about this ghastly injury on Friday — “Brian May hospitalized after injuring buttocks in ‘overenthusiastic’ gardening incident,” reported CNN — my wife said the “one thing” she wants for Mother’s Day this weekend is a COVID-19 charitable donation and for me to yank out a thick labyrinth of vines that have turned into ground cover and invaded her beloved perennials.
First of all, I’m not sure how two things equal “one thing.” But if marriage has taught me anything, it’s to not get hung up on logic or math. As with most households, we divvy up the labour. My jobs include dishwashing, garbage, light-bulb changing, repairs, bills, car maintenance, vacuuming, laundry, pandemic homeschooling, online shopping, tech support, floor scrubbing, litterbox cleaning, battery changing, furnace filter replacing …
And as far as I can tell, her job is to make sure I do my jobs.
She owns the 7-Eleven and I’m standing behind the counter selling beef jerky.
Fine. Good. No problem. But if a famous person were to suffer a freak accident while, say, doing one of my jobs, do I not have a moral responsibility to raise this with management?
Honey, I know you want me to pull out vines, weed and fire up the mower this weekend. But please check Brian’s Instagram. His green thumb has led to a purple backside. He can’t walk. He can’t sleep. He’s going to be bedridden this month for doing what you expect me to do on Mother’s Day.
I know what you’re thinking. Is this lunatic really trying to exploit a celebrity injury to wiggle out of gardening? Well, instead of thinking that, why don’t you break quarantine and come over to see just how many vines my wife is talking about. If Brian May ripped his posterior, I’m going to end up in traction this weekend. And then who’s going to clean the toaster oven?
The upside of this pandemic? This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance to rethink how we live, to reprioritize, to focus on what truly matters. During a plague, aren’t dust bunnies the least of it? If a vaccine may not be forthcoming until 2021, why am I expected to sweep the porch? And if one of my childhood heroes is now coping with mangled ass cheeks from a yard mishap, isn’t that a divine sign to shun the Greenworks tools in my shed until further notice? You know what Queen song May will not be listening to as he convalesces? “Fat Bottomed Girls.” You know why? HE BROKE HIS BOTTOM! That society has pressured him into gardening in the first place makes no sense. Look at his hair! Is there anything about that white mop of an Einstein ’fro that telegraphs manicured lawn or trimmed hedges? The man is a human briar patch. He should have an outdoor mosh pit, not roses or rhododendrons. The sonic genius who played guitar on tracks such as “Bohemian Rhapsody,” “Keep Yourself Alive,” “Bicycle Race” and “Somebody to Love” should not be communing with nature if the casualty is his butt.
I can’t tell you how many times Queen’s music soothed my jangled soul during adolescence. And that’s exactly why I’m not mowing my lawn or pulling out any vines this weekend. I adore May too much to make a mockery of this tragedy by blindly replicating the overenthusiastic gardening my wife is cruelly proposing. Not happening. I’m not sculpting any bushes. I’m not whacking any weeds. And I’m sure as hell not doubling over for hours, ripping out vines when doing so may well turn my derriere into a pot of spaghetti. During this pandemic, my bum is all I’ve got left.
I wish Brian May a speedy recovery and salute his posterior for inadvertently casting light on the risks husbands now face beyond the virus.
Other rock gods should be as selfless. Would it kill Mick Jagger to accidentally cut his hand while unloading the dishwasher? Is it too much to ask for Paul McCartney to crack a rib while wheeling out the recycling? Is there any reason Robert Plant should not break his collarbone after getting tangled up in his Dyson cord while vacuuming?
Come on, Sting. Take one for the team and puncture a lung while tantric eaves-cleaning.
We can’t let May’s backside pain go in vain. Not now, gentlemen, not during this outbreak.
This crazy time should be a wake-up call and we men need to stand together and … Hang on. My wife just texted to ask when I’ll be done. It seems she needs “one thing.”
Goodbye, elbows! I will miss you forever!