Seriously, I get it–We’re all trying to be green these days. My personal efforts include, among other things, washing my hair approximately twice a week and clothing approximately twice a year (kidding about that last one). But true confession time: there’s one bad thing that feels oh-so-good.
I love throwing things away.
Look, here’s something that’s not a secret. I’m a mess. My house is never, ever, going to be neat and tidy. I’m not one of those [amazeballs] ladies who looks around and finds there’s nothing left to do but light an Airwick. That moment is not going to happen for me. I wish I could blame it on the fact that I have a full time job, a toddler, and three animals, but the sad truth is that my messiness predates all that.
As untidy as I am, there comes a point every two to three weeks or so where I hit a wall (sometimes literally, after stumbling over random ish on the floor). Those are the times when I become a hurricane force of trash-throwing. It’s so therapeutic to be like, you know what? Chuck you. TRASH ALL THE THINGS. Don’t need it, won’t miss it, can’t even handle it. Does it get me into trouble sometimes? Sure. Particularly if it’s something P was saving for later (unlike me, he doesn’t hit the periodic wall—or at least not before I do). But you guys. It is SO. SATISFYING.
Here are some of my especially guilty pleasures—things that should be cleaned or put away, but instead….well, you know.
Plastic Tupperware containers when the food inside them goes bad
Cards that people have actually written notes in
Things that T “made” at school (in my defense, I usually give it a good month on the fridge first).
Perfectly good wrapping paper or gift bags.
Underwear and bras that ride up and give me wedgies, and sometimes even clothes that make me feel fat (these are really fun).
Little junkies like paper clips, pen caps, and even pennies. That’s right folks, I’ve thrown out actual money.
Assorted and sundry things that should probably be disposed of in a more responsible way, recent examples of which include a hair dryer and an old toaster oven.
I always start out with the best intentions, holding on to these items until I get the chance to find their forever homes. But the chance never seems to come, and then my house starts to look like an actual trash can because of all the junk I’ve been wanting to properly dispose of.
My worst confession I have saved for the last. I’m starting to get the itch again—with the recycling itself. Before you go all righteous on me, keep in mind that our curbside bin lives outside in a big ol’ hole of Georgia clay. So the recyclables “gather” on the floor under our hall table, only to be pulled out and dragged all over the house by the one-year-old. I’m talking pizza boxes, milk jugs, and cardboard inserts in the bathroom, by the front door, and under the couch. The only exception is a small wastebasket used for junk mail that gets to overflowing in like, two days and lives on top of the dryer–right at eye level, people—again, so T won’t get into it. I’ve tried the “shuttle” box (you know, an intermediary box to fill and then empty into the outdoor bin). T just turns it into a literal shuttle, pushing it around the house, taking a few things out in every room as he goes like some kind of demented stock boy. What would you do?
But the world continues to punish me with its repudiating glares. First there’s my dad, who has literally taken trash from my house to his house for the express purpose of recycling it (he can’t help it, he worked for the EPA for 30 years). Then, there’s things like this:
Green guilt: it’s a thing. So now you know.