Filthy gorgeous and gloriously trashy

This garbage can is my bitch

I used to take the trash cans out to the street while shod with whatever stilettos I had on that day. It made me feel fancy on my rubbish runway (and you know I slayed, stomp stomp). 

But my body isn’t the high heel wearing type anymore. And it hasn’t even been the trash hauling type lately either. So, the other day was the first time I had taken the cans out in, well, I don’t even know how long. Nine months? 

I was so excited for my wife, Elenor, to realize one of the many household tasks she has absorbed while I’ve been down and out would be done without her effort. The queen deserves a break. 

But like a newb, I took the lip of the driveway too fast (athletic!) at a diagonal and the passing biker got an earful of adult words as the very full can slow-motion tipped, tipped and toppled, spilling detritus from the weekend’s backyard Pride celebration into the street. 

Not to be deterred and determined not to create more work for Elenor, I scrambled to hoist the green giant upright and refill it with its trashy treasure. I flipped it a quick bird after getting it cleaned up and settled perfectly 3-feet from the curb, just so it remembers who owns it (/rents it from the City, whatever). I’m in charge.

Glennon Doyle was cheering me on from afar, I’m sure, seeing me do hard things. 

The truth is, I’ve been feeling better for a little bit. Two hip replacements and chronic degenerative disease haven't made for a cake walk (OK, sometimes not even a walk at all) this last year, but your girl is a phoenix rising from the refuse!

It’s downright silly how much being able to do a menial task means to me. I guess it’s equal to how hard it’s been not to be able to do even the easy stuff. I lived the privileged mobile life for most of my existence. I let autonomy and ability fuel my identity. I’m a doer! 

“Let me help with that.” “What can I do to help?” These were the things I used to say with regularity. Switching to “May I ask a favor of you?” was as comfortable to me as a girdle. It reduced me and took my breath away. 

It also showed me a lot about people’s willingness in — and sometimes even joy at — being helpful. And it taught me the vulnerability of needing. 

A couple of weeks ago, I made it to campus for a work event, and my friend buzzed me around in my wheelchair like we were doing a new Olympic event. Her driving and my directional hand signals were the stuff of legend. I’m sure our gold medals are in the mail. 

But I ended up having to stay on campus to do a Zoom presentation right after the event, so when I left, I was chauffeurless getting to the car. “This should be doable,” I thought. “People navigate campus in wheelchairs all the time.” 

Well, they’re either better people or it’s hard for them too, because I was making roughly two wheel shoves to every 15-second break up a slight incline. 

Elenor was waiting to pick me up, so I was trying to hustle, though I think that’d be a generous way of describing my actual pace. After my third or fourth rest break, a friendly passerby asked if I’d like help up the hill. Saved.

I was moved in more ways than one, and it reminded me of a time years ago when I saw a person slip-sliding on an icy incline in their wheelchair. My urge to help was immediate and strong, but I refrained. I worried that asking if they needed help would falsely communicate that I perceived them as incapable. 

I erred on the side of not underestimating their abilities, but I don’t think that’s the choice I’ll make again. Instead, maybe I’ll ask, like my sidewalk warrior, if they would like assistance — no assessment of need, just willing support if there’s a desire for it. 

Help is a universal commodity, and I delight in imagining I can be a supplier again. 

So, would anyone like help with their cans? 💪🏼