My obsession about trash and recycling pickup day is surely a good indicaton of the pure tedium of my suburban life. But there it is. Once a week I’m tied up in knots about our refuse being hauled away.
I suppose this quirk has its roots in the days when we had five trash producers under one roof every day of the week. Missing pickup day meant a stinking, overflowing trash can and WAY too much recycling to fit in the rolling bin. It meant a week compacting the kitchen trash without an electric compactor, to avoid filling that outdoor bin any further. A week of smashed milk jugs and vegetable tins spilling over onto the garage floor.
Okay, I have to admit that doesn’t sound like a life-or-death situation. Nonetheless, I feel my stress level rising every Wednesday evening. Did we forget to take the bins to the curb? Oh, no. We do that on Thursdays now. And then several panicky moments throughout the day on Thursdays. What if I forget to set out the trash before I go to bed (our trucks come before sunrise)? Even though I’ve written “TRASH NIGHT” on the dry erase board on the fridge so that I see it every time I walk through the kitchen? Oh, except for this week, when our service is delayed by one day due to a national holiday. On these weeks I get yet ANOTHER day of worry, because trash night is moved to Friday.
Holy cow, I lead a dull existence. Maybe I should paint another wall this weekend just for the thrill of watching the paint dry.