I heard the tell-tale signs of the garbage truck outside my bedroom window. And even in my half-awake place, I felt that implicit sinking feeling: It's trash day. I didn't take out the trash.
(I forgot it last week too. I assure you, our garbage can will only handle so much forgetting.)
I jumped out of bed and threw on a pair of shoes. All right, brown ballet flats. If you must know.
In my pajamas, I raced down the stairs, through the house, waited impatiently for the garage door to comply with my needs, and hastily pushed an unweildy trash can down to the sidewalk.
I raced down the street, my arms waving wildly, chasing the trash truck.
In my jammies.
They stopped for me. So gracious of them. They seemed sympathetic - perhaps for my appearance, my garbage plight, my vast measures to remember this one simple task.
(Guess whose job it was to take out the trash? Well, not mine. And I think the neighbors long for Robb's efficient productivity as well, as we are all learning now that we, as a collective neighborhood, do not look at the recycling calendar. We counted on Robb. He watched the 'every other week,' enlisted my help in collecting our last few items and taking the bins out to the street. And the neighbors then followed suit, as Robb sent them the cue by setting the example. Now that his mental checklist is not here to guide us, well, let's just say my garage isn't the only one filled with recyclables. Someday, somebody will remember. And we'll see the bins on the street and follow suit. Someday. It will be a mass exodus of plastics and glass.)
That's one way to start the morning. Whew.
(A girl should wear a bra before she meets her garbage man face to face. Just sayin'. Keep that information in mind.)