It is a Wednesday, a Wednesday when Recycle Man comes to our little community in his big green truck. I remember Kathleen Turner’s character in John Waters’ Serial Mom. I don’t think anyone in my neighbourhood would kill me for not recycling, but I can’t be absolutely certain. So my recyclables go out .
Last night, I decided that this would be the Wednesday when my paper clutter would be recycled. I accumulated a paper grocery bag filled with direct mail solicitations from every charity known to the American people, from St Jude’s to the Salvation Army. I recycle this stuff frequently, but if I fall behind ever so slightly, it’s as if my home needs a paper enema.
I sat in my chair, removing my name and address, the plastic windows in the envelopes, and any other unsuitable things. It took the whole evening to toss out this crap, but around Eleven PM, I took the bag out to the green wheeled Rubbermaid refuse container in front of my residence.
Upon completion, I decided to vacuum whatever areas of carpet lay exposed in my downstairs. Eventually I went bed and slept until pain woke me up.
I could say more. I could write about the chicken and leek soup I prepared in the slow cooker. What I write about in the sleep-deprived darkness of pre-dawn, is what I do to take the edge off my loneliness.
That’s not all that unusual, is it?