Trashed

Despite vacillating back and forth over whether or not to blog this experience, I have decided that this story simply must be shared with the world notwithstanding the effect it has had on my pride.

I have always considered myself to be a relatively athletic person. I fought tooth and nail during high school to be able to play field hockey, since my mom mistakenly thought that cross country was the only appropriate sport (in time commitment and intensity) for her children. Until I became out of shape and slow, I was also pretty good at basketball. And, to this day, I still pretend to be an outdoorsey person, though my New Jersey version of outdoorsey-ness does not compare to the hard core granolas that grew up in the Mountain West. In short, I have been under the mistaken impression that I am coordinated.

Then, there was "the incident".

After purchasing a new queen sized bed set, I carefully read the instructions that were attached to the mattress--Serta suggests that I throw away the plastic that protects the mattress and box spring immediately after removing it. Always one to follow instructions, I proceeded to roll up the plastic into a big ball. I went into the garage with the equivalent of a tank top on, since I didn't want to get any dirt from the plastic on my white sweater.

Let me explain the logistics behind throwing the plastic out.

1. Our garage has three cement steps down from the level of the house to the base of the garage.

2. A plastic bannister is built on each side of the cement steps for "safety".

3. Our garbage can sits to the left of the steps and plastic bannister, and opens perpendicular to the steps. Therefore, when we want to dispose of our trash, we open the door to the garage, stand on the steps, lean over the bannister to the left, open the trash can, and throw the garbage out.

4. The garbage can is provided to us by the city--it is one of those huge black cans with a square top. The hinge mechanism on the backside of the can attaches the lid to the trash can's body.

Realizing that the big ball of plastic would take more effort to dispose of than a normal grocery store bag filled of trash, I firmly planted my feet on two different steps. I then proceeded to lift the lid to the trash can with my left hand, and throw the plastic ball in the garbage with my right. Though we had just emptied the trash can a couple days earlier, the plastic ball remained at the top of the garbage can. Thinking that something was artificially causing the plastic not to descend to the bottom of the can, I realized that I'd need to apply force to the plastic ball.

To do this, I leaned over the bannister and continued to hold the lid up with my left hand. I shifted my weight to my right hand to push down on the plastic. Unfortunately, the silky top I was wearing had no friction against the plastic bannister, and my feet were not level or steady. I lost my balance quickly when the plastic gave way faster than expected--my belly proceeded to scrape against the banister [there is still evidence of a "banister burn" all the way across my stomach]. My right hand continued to descend into the garbage can, which was followed shortly thereafter by my entire upper body. Being halfway into the garbage can, with my legs clearly detatched from the ground, my right armpit got lodged against the edge where the garbage can meets the lid [once again, there is still evidence of this "incident" in the form of some serious redness in that unfortunate area]. Lastly, my left hand of course came crashing down, which caused the lid of the garbage can to slam down, and crash onto my lower back which was, by that time, at the top of the garbage can.

Quickly, with my pride hurt, I removed myself from the garbage can, ran into the house, and lied on the ground to wait out the stinging pains. You'd be surprised how much pain this incident caused me on many different levels.

In the poetic words of my friend and confidant, "I got owned by the trash can."