When Revulsion Eclipses Humiliation

Oh no.

I had been lying in bed, savoring that precious few moments before the torment of the third-and-final snooze alarm set in. Following the second, I had been unable to return to the land of slumber, thinking about the day’s busy itinerary; in two hours, we would be on our way to sunny Bermuda.

But there is a noise filtering through my sluggish consciousness and I am reasonably certain it is the distinctive rumble of the garbage truck turning into our street.

“Honey,” I groan as I roll over and prod my husband’s shoulder.

“Mmmph.”

“Did you take the garbage out?” I'm 99.9 percent sure he hasn’t but cling to the infinitesimal hope that he’ll surprise and delight me.

He answers with a snore or an expletive – I can’t tell which, but neither is promising.

“I got it,” I grumble, sliding my feet into my comically fuzzy slippers. It’s been two months since we moved to the quaint neighborhood and have yet to acclimate to waste collection before 7 a.m., and on a Monday rather than a Wednesday.

Out of reflex, I give my appearance the briefest of assessments in the hall mirror and instantly wish I hadn’t. My hair is a matted halo about my head and the residual mascara that managed to resist removal has clouded beneath my eyes. At least my wrinkled shirt – an old tee of my husband’s that had been within reach – is large enough to cover the hole in the seat of my pajama shorts.

As I step outside and squint against the sunrise, I can see the garbage truck is still two houses away – I can make it. Moving as fast as my fuzzy slippers will allow, I reach the side of the house and am met with a trash bag listing against our massive 95-gallon trash can, which is apparently too crammed with bags to fit one more. Seriously? How can two people generate so much garbage? And then I remembered we had forgotten to get it out the week before.

I make the quick decision to grab both can and wayward bag, the latter of which I can put in the can across the street. It belongs to an elderly man named Jim who lives alone. He surely doesn’t require a 95-gallon capacity each week and is always sensible enough to put his can out the night before pickup day. Most importantly, his bin won’t be emptied until the garbage truck comes back down the other side of the road.

I manage to wheel and maneuver the trash can into its designated pickup spot at the bottom of the driveway, just ahead of the garbage truck. There’s a curious audience a few driveways down: two moms considerably more put together than I, waiting with a gang of small children for the school bus. I ignore them and clear the way for the behemoth truck before heaving the full, white, tall, kitchen garbage bag to the ground. And then I notice a messy trail of riced cauliflower leaking down the side of it. Gross. Grosser still, I spot a good deal of it on my shirt.

“You know we won’t pick it up if it's not in a can, right ma’am?” One of the waste collectors is addressing me as he leans out of the truck’s window, watching the giant mechanical arms grip my can.

And suddenly I can’t reply. I am paralyzed for an eternal second watching the riced cauliflower on my shirt wriggle about. The putrid stench of the truck’s innards hits me. I can at last emit the alien sound of sheer horror and loathing that had been building in my throat. I tear my maggot-infested shirt off and run frantic fingers through my hair, shaking my head, brushing my arms; my entire body feels like it’s crawling. I’m about to shed the shorts when I see the small crowd at the bus stop, big and little faces turned toward me, all with mouths turned to O’s like a cluster of Facebook “wow” reactions. The waste collector who had spoken to me, and the truck’s driver, are also gaping. It occurs to me for the first time that I am topless before strangers.

I cross my arms over my chest, straighten my back, and raise my chin in a show of mustered dignity before beginning my stately journey up the driveway, hoping the hole in the seat of my pajama shorts isn't that noticeable. After a few steps I feel a tickle on the back of my leg, stifle a shriek, and make a mad flailing dash into the house. I am met by my husband, who had been awakened by my third snooze alarm and is now virtually howling with laughter. The situation is still too raw for me to find any humor in it, and I glare at him while casting off the rest of my clothing. I point to the pile. “Burn those,” I growl before heading upstairs.

I spend the next 40 minutes in a scalding shower. The one saving grace is that I will be escaping the neighborhood and my shame for the next several days. The Bermuda sun will hopefully scorch the heebie-jeebies from my skin and the mortification from my mind.

Epilogue

It was not long after returning from vacation that I was able to make amends with the two neighbor moms, meeting them at the bus stop one morning and expressing regret for the unfortunate glimpse into me at my worst. They brushed off the apology, saying there was no need – one confessed she would have done the exact same thing if she’d been in my fuzzy slippers. The rawness had at last worn off enough to laugh at it. But to this day, I still cannot face the waste collectors.

At least they disappeared the maggot bag.