It's trash day. It all seems so simple. Unless... you're my mother's daughter.
Yes. My mom micromanages how I take out the trash.
I've said it before, and I'll say it again: I'm not the most coordinated person.
Imagine me trying to carry too many things, and dropping absolutely everything in my grasp while desperately trying to hold onto all of it.
Now, imagine all of those things being trash.
Consequently, I like to throw trash away in smaller batches, to give it a better shot at actually ending up in the trash. I think that this is reasonable, but my dear mother is not quite in agreement.
Every time I take a trashbag out the door, I can hear my mom shouting, "You forgot one! Come back!"
So, I shout back, "No I didn't. I'll make 2 trips!"
Unfortunately, my mom meets me halfway with the rest of the trash, fully expecting me to carry everything. "Be careful. It's really heavy."
What she doesn't know is that past trips to the trashcan holding all I can carry are akin to the slapstick humor of a cartoon. The scene would end with me muttering obscenities as I retrieved the trash strewn all over the yard.
And there are various reasons why this could possibly happen: The trash in the bag is too heavy and the bag breaks halfway to the trashcan. Multiple trash bags obscure my vision of the ground beneath me and I trip, sending garbage everywhere. The trash bag has a hole in the bottom and there's a mysterious fluid. You get the point.
Eventually, I just tell her how making 2 trips ends up being much shorter in the long run, because cleaning up the possible disaster that could ensue will surely take longer than that second trip to the trashbins. I explain to her that, as long as the trash gets taken out, why does it have to all go out exactly at the same time as long as it gets in the bin before the trash collector comes?
"Oh," she says.