It's so windy out that I have to go trash picking. Not the fun kind of trash picking, like when
my friend and I drive by an old changing table that someone is disposing of,
and we grab it so she can turn it into an awesome plant stand. This is the not-fun kind of trash picking,
like when I hear a crash outside and realize that my recycle bin has blown
over.
I am still in my pajamas when I hear this. Because it is sub-zero wind chill outside and
I live in an old breezy building, my pajamas consist of a long-sleeve shirt,
sweatshirt, heavy flannel pants, thick socks, and fleece-lined slippers. This really isn't a bad outfit for appearing
outside in front of the Sunday church-goers who line my street. I am dressed well enough that no small
children will be scarred for life if they spot me.
I make sure to unlock the door behind me and throw an extra
set of keys into my pocket, just in case.
As soon as I step outside, a giant gust of wind threatens to knock me
off the stoop. Regaining my balance, I
focus in time to see the same errant gale roll plastic and bottles and cans
toward the road. Suddenly I am chasing
things and grabbing containers and picking up escaping cans as if I am
gathering hundred dollars bills.
It takes me a few minutes and several armfuls to get all the
recycling back into the bin. I weigh
everything down by putting another bin on top and wedging everything next to
the trash cans, which I learned two years ago will only stay put if tethered to
the fence with strong rope and hardware screwed into the fencepost. I haven't yet figured out how to secure the
lid of the mailbox, though, and it flaps and slaps noisily whenever the breeze
blows.
It's always fun on trash and recycling days when the wind
gusts are up over thirty miles an hour.
Sometimes it takes me hours, days even, to locate the missing bins that
have blown down the street, through the intersection, and toward the train
tracks. It's like playing Where's Waldo with the blue plastic
receptacles. I finally write the address
on them, but I feel funny about this -- People who happen by my trash (either
where it belongs or to where it has blown) might say, "Holy crap, look at
all the Cheezits that girl can go through!
Honey, did you see the number of empty pizza boxes? There are enough beer bottles in here to melt
down and build a glass house!"
I wonder if I can put this in as exercise for the day: I have to run, I have to bend over to pick
things up, I have to twist and turn to secure the bins, and I have to curl my
arms when refilling the recycling.
Sounds like exercise to me.
Trash-Picking exercise.
