For three days in a row, there has been a mess of litter on the floor of my family room. I have considered picking it up, but I haven't done it. I just walk on by, like I would do on some random city street covered in stinky trash that’s slick with unidentifiable nasty goo full of deadly spores and flesh eating bacteria
But this trash isn’t toxic sludge in an alley!
The trash is in my house, on my floor, mocking me, a symbol of something I can hardly wrap my mind around, and as a card carrying member of team freak flag, I can process some severe weird, know what I'm saying?
Do the people I live with not see this? I wasn't sure and I didn't ask. I just watched.
The second day the litter remained on the floor, I started at it on and off throughout the day. If someone stopped over unexpectedly, they would immediately notice the two random pieces of trash on my floor and wonder why nobody, specifically me, would just pick them up.
Why didn’t I pick up the trash? Why is the trash still there today?
I stopped and wrote a blog, worked on my new blog site, wrote a bundle of (long overdue) thank you notes, ran two miles, walked the dogs, did two loads of laundry, washed the sheets and towels, cooked dinner, and cleaned up the kitchen. I considered cleaning the downstairs bathroom, and although I did not clean it, because I decided I’d do it the next day instead, I do believe that just thinking about it counts as a productive activity.
But I didn’t pick up the trash. And I’m not gonna do it today either.
I have a good reason for not picking it up: I'm the mom, not the maid. Sheesh...