Wednesday is trash day. I hate the trash. I mean, despise with the passion of a few billion fiery suns, hate. No matter how careful I am about keeping myself on the outside of the bag, I always seem to get some mysterious goo on me and then in my panic I trip and spill the goo all over me or the house or rub my eye and I’m convinced I have salmonella and am going blind. And that leads to frantic disinfecting of every inch of me (you have no clue how hard it was not to disinfect my eye that one time…) and every inch of house I walked from the trash can to the door. And HEAVEN FORBID you come within 3 feet of me while I’m carrying the bag out because you’ll get scrubbed down with some lysol wipes too. Probably more than once.
So, it is a heaping mountain of grace for me that my husband automatically takes out the trash. Even after having worked a grueling night shift in the Emergency Room for 12 hours, he never once shrugs it off or looks my way and says, “hey, weirdo, grow up.” And this man is pretty meticulous. He wears disposable gloves, he wipes down the trash can before putting in the new bag… all while calm and orderly and without fears of flesh-eating bacteria devouring us in our sleep. I heart him so.
It’s my understanding that, as a general rule, introverts don’t like talking on the phone. I’m SUCH an introvert. Talking on the phone usually makes me break out in a sweat, is exhausting, and is something I DREAD, no matter how much I love and enjoy the person on the other line. And while society shakes its head in embarrassment of me, I have dear sweet friends far away who don’t demand our relationship be maintained by the use of this torture device. Many text, send facebook messages, and some… some engage in correspondence of the snail mail variety. Even when they’d just rather talk. I really don’t deserve such sweet lovelies.