Longtime readers will know (or simply suspect) that I try to minimize waste whenever possible. This isn’t done out of loyalty to some underlying mission, cause, or purpose. It just comes naturally to me to try to get the most out of what I have. As a result, over the years I’ve squeezed a lot more juice out of lemons that others probably would have given up on. (There is probably no better testament to my approach than the very computer I’m using as I type this sentence, an ancient Apple laptop that I first booted up in 2006, but that’s another matter.)
However, despite all my ranting and raving about waste efficiency, there has been one area over the years where I’ve always been relatively wasteful – trash. To be more specific, I’ve been consistently wasteful in the way I throw out my trash because I often leave a single half-filled bag on the curb for pickup. This is of course due to the lack of waste I produce but I cannot fail to note the irony of my predicament – if I do everything I can to minimize waste, then I’m doomed to waste space in the trash bag.
I’m reminded of my wastefulness every time my neighborhood has a trash pickup. I’ll wake up bright and early, collect all the final bits of trash, and bring my perfectly sealed bag downstairs to the curb. As I lay my trash down, I’ll often realize how embarrassingly light it appears alongside the other bulging bags produced by my neighbors. From a distance, it probably looks like some forgetful pizza guy left his empty carrier on the sidewalk. I can imagine the pickup guys later in the day laughing as they toss the sorriest bag on the block into the back of their truck – hey, anyone need a doormat? – or – what was this supposed to be, a balloon?
What’s a guy to do when his inability to waste leads to so much waste? I suppose one approach is to wait until the trash bag I use on pickup day is completely full before I bring it down. This isn’t a bad strategy, reader, but it’s also one I’ve tried in the past. How did it go, you might ask? Let’s put it this way – my joke about having a pet mouse didn’t write itself. In fact, my paranoia about rodents is so high that I now freeze any food trash so that the scent of rotting vegetables doesn’t bring back my furry buddies for a slumber party.
Another way could be to buy smaller trash bags. This is actually a good idea, and should be feasible. Unfortunately, reader, if there is a Beacon Hill establishment that sells smaller trash bags, I’d like to know about it. Until then, a version of the joke I made when my cousins visited from Japan applies – there’s regular size, and then there’s America size. In Beacon Hill, the only available trash bags are in America size.
I guess the only option left for this lean, green, waste-efficient machine is to somehow produce more trash. I have a hunch on how I might do this, reader, or at least what such trash might look like, because sometimes these bulging bags I’m so mindful of burst open like a ripening fruit and scatter their envied goodness all over the cobblestone and pageantry and history of Beacon Hill. On these mornings, I can see from my window everything that’s missing from my bag – takeout containers, worn out dog leashes, packaging for broken toys, and outgrown tiny clothing. I see what makes my half-filled bag feel wasted when I see this trash of a life spent at home. I leave my deflated bag next to the trash and I walk on, away from home, where the time I spend alone always feels like time being wasted.
