If there's one thing in this world I hate to do, it's taking out the trash. I don't want to smell it or touch it or look at it or think about it.
When I lived in Richmond, I would put it it off as long as possible. Then, when I couldn't stand it anymore, I'd fling all the trash bags over my balcony and then head down to the yard and drag them to the trash cans next to the alley. (It's no wonder I hated it so much when I left myself with four or five bags to deal with at once.)
Upon moving into my present three unit apartment building, all of the tenants had a very loosely structured system of taking turns dragging the trash and recycling cans to the curb. They're huge and smelly and dirty and hideous. Admittedly, I didn't fully do my share of it. Some weeks no one in the building would drag it over, and the entire building would suffer.
Then we got a new trash collector man. And I fell in love.
For awhile I was suspecting that no one from the building was dragging our cans to the curb yet it was still being emptied every week. On one of the Friday mornings when I had to move my car for street cleaning at 7am, my suspicions were confirmed. Our trash collector comes and gets it for us. What service! Plus, he's cute! San Francisco must hire the best trash collectors on earth. Since he came along, I have tried to make a conscious effort to stop calling him the "trash man" because that is derogatory toward him.
Part of me feels a little guilty. He has a job that I would certainly not want, and would it be so terrible for me to do my part of make it a little easier on him? Yet, that doesn't persuade me. I try to make it up to both of us by sending him good thoughts and mumbling "I love you" to myself when I see him on Friday mornings. I'm sure he feels my gratitude as I shyly duck my head and dart to my car in my pajamas in the early dawn light, avoiding his eyes.
Plus, this morning I saw him pick up some random litter in the street and throw it away. I think I got an erection.