Trash Talk
I understand recycling was a huge burden, but you showed up like a champ! I mean once you were done with that chip on your shoulder and we pushed through the learning curve.
Dear Man I Married,
Yes, love is our thing. We are both exceedingly nice people and we deserve an old age of kindly dogs, interested grandchildren and benign contentment.
Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, would you mind replacing the garbage bag when you take out the trash?
I know you are the one who always walks it out of the house, leaving me with only a blissfully vague awareness of which day is the vaunted garbage one is. Thank you.
I understand recycling was a huge burden, but you showed up like a champ! I mean once you were done with that chip on your shoulder and we pushed through the learning curve. After all, it is our posterity we’re doing this for.
What was I yelling about? Oh. Trash. But that’s all I’m talking about. Yes, I think I will take a bow. Notice my restraint. I’m not discussing the pile of dishes. I know dinner was delicious, but you ate it too. I mean on top of those frozen dino bites I saw you sneak after dessert.
I will not broach the incessant talking. I like the sound of your voice, and your thoughts are interesting and delightfully offbeat. I enjoy the words you choose, and I love your accent! If you want to use that as an excuse to berate yourself, go ahead, but I’m not sure I could sustain interest in a man without one.
Even after this quarter century, it’s sometimes hard to tell. Are you turning red from embarrassment or rage?
You know people love being around me. They do. They like the sound of my voice, and find the Brooklyn in my inflection adorable. They think I’m funny. And interesting.
I’ll change the garbage bag myself. As I must.
I’m sure you meant to and that you’re very sorry you got distracted by the myriad other things I don’t give a shit about but you find essential. Like securing the perimeter of the house.
I know it’s not that you’d like to ignore me. Do I really have to make you feel better about that? Stop cowering. I’m not yelling! Or you’re making me yell. All I want is for you to change the bag.
I understand garbage is “dirty.” That’s the nature of the beast. Take it out first. Don’t do it simultaneously. Just put in a new bag when you make it back home!
You are the only one who knows this precise turnover moment. I discover it’s missing because I have “dirty” garbage in my hands with no place to put it. Do you have any idea how frustrating that is? No, of course you don’t. I always change the bag.
Yes, thank you. I’ll take a sip of water. You better hope I don’t throw it in your face. Nothing, honey, can you move over? We keep the bags right where you’re standing.
Yes, the lawn looks great. Must I always feel like that emoji that smacks herself in the head?
The process should go like this.
- Take it out. Quickly, it’s dripping from the corners! Don’t worry about that, I’ll clean it. Won’t even mention it.
- Walk the 20 feet to the trashcan.
- Put it inside.
- Shut the lid and come on home!
- Replace the bag.
No, it’s not that important to me! I’m trying to stop screaming, but you can’t hear me. I love you, I just feel helpless in the face of a plastic bag, you know?
You feel attacked? Maybe I don’t attack until you stop hearing me.
My deepest wound is that what I say doesn’t matter, that I have spent my whole life screaming beneath a glass jar and now that I’ve toppled it, it feels like I’m constantly screeching. But a garbage bag isn’t a big ask. Either for you or me. Acknowledge that I’m speaking, that the words coming from my mouth have a shape and a flavor you can follow.
Otherwise, this has become a lot of me trying to figure out a new way to talk trash.
I married you because you are different, because your sweet smile and easy demeanor went against everything I knew about love and gave me hope for a warm hearted future. In this case, conformity won’t kill you. Change the fucking bag.
I appreciate that unlike our fathers, you changed diapers. We were that bridge generation so I forgive you for calling it babysitting when I left you with them. You raised your kids. In the trenches. On the daily. And I know we are all the better for it.
Come to bed. We’ve each battled our giant, unrelated wicked demons for the day. I will always lean in when you hold me like this. This moment, day after day, is what keeps me here. It’s the ordinary way in which I ask what you want for lunch, or you do the laundry and care enough to dry the clothing on cold, while I hang your inevitably formal shirts in the order you like.
It is the jolt I get still when I watch you play with a new generation of children, and the anticipation of our own grandchildren, may that take a few years yet. It is the way I dread when you leave me and am thrilled to see you come home.
We have spent these last many wild adventures around the sun trying to convince each other that we want to stay in this life together. I do. I do. Almost enough to start taking out the garbage myself.
