I’m the holes in his bags, I’m Glad.
I can’t tell you how long it’s been that I’ve gone to the trash can after my hubby has put a new bag in, only to find that there’s too much air in there, you know? Call me neurotic, but it’s a pet peeve. The more air in there, the less junk I can put in the trash. For years now, I’ve snuck in a few minutes after he’s put a new bag in only to let out the air trapped inside, between the bag and the can.
I never say a word – because honestly, who has the heart to tell a grown man how to take out the trash? That’s just wrong. Besides, I would risk having to do the chore myself if I insulted him to the point of (you know what’s coming) “fine, do it your dam* self.” I couldn’t do it.
Air in the bag, I can live with that. I can live with being the “air letter outer”. No problem.
Today, for some reason, I took the plunge. I did. I’m a daredevil, that’s me. Here’s how the whole thing went down:
Me
- : “Honey?”
Him
- : “yeah?”
Me
- : “Could I get you to let the air out of the bags when you put a new one in the trash?”
Him
- : “What for?”
Me
- : “Well, it’s kinda like wrapping the trash up in bubble wrap. If you take the bubble wrap away, there’s room for more trash.”
Him
- : “That air goes away, honey.”
Me
- : “Uhm, no, it doesn’t sweetie.”
Him
- : “It always does, there’s holes in the bags for the air to escape.”
Pause. For a moment. Just to giggle and snicker.
Me: “Honey, I hate to tell you this, but I’m the holes in your bags. I’ve been letting the air out for years.”
