I forgot to put out the trash Sunday night. It was late enough, dark enough and wet enough that I couldn’t ask Nicholas to do it, with his limited sight. So I went to bed anyway. I awoke at five a.m. with the thought: “The trash!”
Sometimes the truck comes at seven a.m., sometimes at nine a.m., but this particular load of trash needed to go to the curb – lots of recycling, and the remnants of a party.
I don’t like dressing in the dark, with too many pins and tucks. It doesn’t take long, but I didn’t want to get started and then go back to bed. What would most people do?
Going to the curb in bright pink pajamas and bathrobe is not an option. I’m not a superstitious person, but that’s just courting a minor disaster – getting locked out, police coming to see why crazy woman is on curb at six a.m., neighbour out walking the dog and telling the whole village what you look like in your jimjams.
“I’ll put on jeans,’ I thought, “and a sweater.”
No jeans. Except husband’s, and his waist measurement is just a little less than my hip measurement, and he is several inches taller. What could be worse than being caught in bright pink jammies on the curb? Being caught wearing clown pants.
But I was determined to put out the trash and go back to bed. I scrounged around in the closet until I found soemthing suitable – old exercise pants from my boxing days. They are plain black, drawstring waist, and say “everlast” on them in various places.
(Just a quirky little aside: When Everlast started selling branded merchandise at Wal-mart, looking Plain starting to be a real option for me. Is that a strange kind of vanity, or what? I had taken way too much pride in my ability to hit things/people. Yes, Plain was the penance, and that tiny violent corner of my soul was subdued through prayer and fasting, and the grace of God.)
I donned the pants, an old sweater, and my ordinary boots. Trash went to the curb despite the wet, cold, not yet dawn morning. I went back to bed for a couple of hours, snug in the bliss of a task well done, albeit late.
Note to self: Go to Len’s and buy some garden clogs, will you please? Leather ankle boots without socks is a weird sensation.