About A Trash Can

This story is about a trash can. One that has lived in my car since my son was more of a toddler than a baby. There came a point where a truly waterproof catchall could be relied upon to catch unfinished beverages and food remains from a life lived quickly and in transit with a growing child.

I keep a relatively tidy car. (You can read more on the overall organization concepts here.) I keep my sweet ride washed but have been known to skip vacuuming if there is white sand on the floorboards from a recent vacation. I like living with the memories.

This trash can has moved from car to car to car. It is small and I have wedged it – and it has stayed upright! – through all makes and models. It has always lived on the backseat floorboard. As it should.

Until a week ago.

Ten days ago I hurt the muscles in my right arm. I don’t really know how and have spent very little time slowing down to figure it out. I did visit a doctor when my concern grew after not being able, after two days, to “pop it back” into action. It hurts. I have experienced a few truly unhappy moments. It aches deeply and has changed my sleep patterns and positions but it is healing. Swimming helps. Swimming helps everything, really.

But this story is about a trash can. The fact that I moved it to the front floorboard of my office on wheels because reaching behind the seats brought instant tears to my eyes and I had to pull the car over with that first loud gasp. Not just to cry harder and clean up the tears, but to move the trash can to the front so I could keep living at a pace I enjoy.

Let’s be clear. I do not like the bin in the front. It is challenged to stay upright. I can’t wedge it and it falls over every time I turn sharply, mostly at 47th and Gillham, my favorite route home because I love driving by the Nelson-Atkins. I have had to be very diligent that every iced tea cup  – which is headed home to the recycling bin – is truly empty. My husband, who enjoys a beverage that contains milk, must keep that cup in the cup holder and then promptly remove it from the car. Spilled milk, a sippy cup, and a toddler are why I have ridden with Rubbermaid security for over 18 years.

This is a story about a trash can. Not the slow realization that I will never be a patient patient. I will be tested in this lifetime and I will try my best.

I promise.

SHARE THIS: