I wake with a start.

“What day is it?”

Tuesday? Wednesday? Wednesday, I think.

“I am forgetting something….what is it? Think, think, think. Wednesday…”

…

“Oh, shoot–Wednesday! This is the day Chelsie can use the internet, and I haven’t written her an email for the week. Crap. Wait, what time is it?”

Time…time…what time is it? Of course, I have to reach for my glasses, because even though our clock projects the current time on our ceiling with bright red digital numbers, I nevertheless cannot see what time it is without some form of optical aid. [Nobody should ever lie on the eye exam as a kid. Not that I did, or anything…] And anyway, it’s morning now–bright enough that the vibrant red digits probably wouldn’t be visible on the popcorn ceiling.

Glasses located, I reach for my cell phone. It’s 7:45 a.m. (Who am I kidding? It’s totally 9:30. But leave me alone–I don’t have kids or a job. [Or a life, I guess.])

“Nine-thirty. I bet I still have time to write Chelsie a quick email and send it to Brazil.”

Ten minutes later, I close my laptop and lay back down–I still have 20 minutes before ten a.m., and why get up before ten? I mean…really…and I’m so tired…

…so…

…tired…

…I start awake again, sitting up in my bed immediately. I’m still forgetting something.
“What day is it again? Oh, Wednesday–I remember now. Wednesdays are miserable. What’s with that silent ‘N,’ anyway? I guess it isn’t really silent–it’s just that everybody pronounces it before the ‘D.’ We should change the spelling of Wednesday. I’ve always thought so. Either that, or start pronouncing it ‘wed–nez–day.’ But wait–I was trying to remember something else. What was that? Let’s see…it’s Wednesday. I already wrote Chelsie… Wednesday… Wednesday… Wed…nez…day…”

Trash day. That was what woke me–I’ve heard the truck on our street.

“Nooooooooooooooooo,” I cried mournfully, my voice low as though in slow motion. But I’m not in slow motion–I’m in…fast motion. I leap out of bed wearing only my unmentionables, and quickly–lightning quick, even–throw on a hoodie and sweatpants.

“The truck can’t be far. It’s getting closer. I swear, if I miss trash day again, I will rub my nose our growing pile. That’s what we did to Sampson whenever he relieved himself on the new carpet. Dadgum dog.”

As I swing open the bedroom door, I have a prime view through the hall and out the front window. I can see our neighbor’s house. The neighbor to the right of us. And the trash man is already there.

I’m too late. Again.

I really hate Wed-nez-days.

Dejected. Defeated. Disheartened.

I trudged (To trudge: the slow, weary, depressing yet determined walk of a man who has nothing left in life except the impulse to simply soldier on–Geoffrey Chaucer [thank you, A Knight’s Tale, and may you rest in peace, Heath Ledger. You were very attractive. Not that I noticed…because I’m married. But before I got married–when I was still in high school and that movie was released–I may have noticed.]) into the kitchen, forlorn.

Walking past the barstools towards the fridge–where I hopefully find some orange juice to nurse my aching heart–I catch a glimpse of brown from the corner of my eye.

“Brown…brown…our trash can is brown. But our liners are…green! Then why did I see only brown?”

Taking a careful step backward, I cautiously peer down…

…at the empty bin.

“How is this even possible? Were we robbed in the night? No, I locked all the doors and windows… Could it be? Poor Kyle? He took out the…the…the trash?? Oh, this is too much. I’m touched. Overwhelmed, even. That dear, dear man. He loves me. He really, truly loves me.”

Tears are now streaming down my face with this realisation. And also with the realisation that I will not, in fact, have to trash-train myself with my nose in the refuse this week.

Some might say I’ve lowered my expectations.

But I will tell you one thing–I love that man. I love him with a love that is fierce. And strong. And that is exactly how I always expected to feel about the man I would eventually marry. So I’d say my expectations are met…

…and…very possibly exceeded.

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