I never anticipated garbage would run so much of my life.
First of all, I’m in the garbage business.
The hazardous waste side of it—but the significantly larger part of what my company does is trash.
And I am proud of it.
Like… aggressively proud.
I get excited when I see one of our trucks.
A dumpster.
A garbage can.
A recycling bin.
I even have two die-cast garbage trucks on my desk—one standard and one electric—that I spent a ridiculous amount of money on… because I literally love our brand.
Marc used to call me his “company girl” and would joke that I’d snitch on him when he worked there too.
I tell you all of this to set the stage for the situation at my house.
First—and this pisses me off every single time I take the trash out—my company does not service my house.
The contract went to… blah, blah, blah…
I’m disproportionally angry at my township about this every time I take out the trash.
EVERY. TIME.
Every time I walk out there and see that can, I am immediately annoyed because I don’t see my company’s logo or colors.
At my own house.
There have been multiple times when Marc was traveling where I just… didn’t take the trash out.
Out of spite.
It infuriated him.
Second… my driveway is loooooong.
Like… offensively long.
These are two very strong reasons I historically had zero interest in taking out the trash.
But my world is different now.
No kids.
No Marc.
And this effing trash can staring at me every day with a level of indignation I cannot fully put into words.
Every week, I have to take it out.
ALLLLLL the way to the end of the driveway.
And I am immediately pissed.
The can rolls loudly the entire way—cursing me, mocking me—wrong color, wrong logo, wrong everything.
And I’m walking what feels like 432 miles just to get it to the end.
PISSED.
And the second I finally get it down there…
I get to turn around and walk the 432 miles BACK.
Because of course I do.
I hate it.
So this week, I step off the porch to begin my weekly slap-in-the-face chore…
And the SECOND my foot hits the sidewalk—
a blizzard starts.
Not snow.
A full-blown, sideways, Michigan, are-you-kidding-me-right-now BLIZZARD.
Insult to injury.
Salt in the wound.
RAWR.
So I grab the stupid effing can…
and march my 432 miles down the driveway in the sideways Michigan blizzard…
Leave the asshole can…
and march my 432 miles BACK UP the driveway—uphill both ways, obviously—in the same sideways effing snow.
I am dragging myself the last few steps to the porch…
cold, annoyed, questioning all my life choices…
And the SECOND—
the literal SECOND—my foot touches the porch…
The blizzard stops.
S T O P P E D.
Like someone flipped a switch.
And I just stood there for a second and thought:
“Marc… are you freaking kidding me?”
And then I gave the sky both of my middle fingers…
and I laughed.
Like really laughed.
Because it felt exactly like him.
Like one of those stupid, ridiculous, perfectly timed moments we would have laughed about forever.
And for a second…
it all came full circle.
Maybe I should just paint it teal?
IYKYK
Still failing… epically. 🩵
