Not The Girl I Used To Be

I’m not the girl I used to be.  Seriously, a millenium ago (really, the seventies were in the last millenium) I would get excited because I was headed to Studio 54 or had just bought some new Betsy Johnson platforms or had scored tickets to ELP (Emerson Lake and Palmer).  I was a city girl – go, go, go 24/7.  Out all night, come home, shower and go to work.

Not so much anymore.  I’m a country girl now.  Although I still work in Manhattan and negotiate it like the local I once was, it may as well be Mars as far as I’m concerned. Now I get excited about going to pick out paint for the hallway.  My designer labels now read “L.L. Bean” and my shoes of choice are their Comfort Mocs.  The hottest concert I saw lately was Blake Shelton.  And as for partying all night – hahahahaha.

I’ll give you an example of how different my life is now.  Last week, I was overjoyed because, are you ready, the new garbage shed came.  I’m not kidding.  I couldn’t wait.  I was like Steve Martin in “The Jerk”  doing the happy dance over the new phone book. But you have to realize what a big deal this is.  My town doesn’t have a garbage dump so you have to use private carting.  There was a time when you could wait until pickup day and then just leave the bags by the side of the road.  Then they modernized with one of those one-man trucks that uses a fork-lift thingy to pick up the containers and dump them.  So now you have to put the garbage in the containers and wheel them down to the road; regular garbage every week and recyclables every other week.

My driveway is long and steep and winding.  At night, it is pitch black and in the winter, often covered with snow and ice.  Truthfully, most of the time my husband brings the containers down.  But he has long arms and can drive them down by opening the car window and dragging them alongside.  I have to walk them.  In bad weather. At night.  In the dark.  And country dark is DARK.  Except for all the creepy eyes glowing at you from between the trees.  Using a hunter’s light on my head lets me see where I’m walking but it could also let me see what’s attached to those eyes and I really don’t want to know.

Why not just leave the containers at the bottom of the drive you ask?  Number one – wouldn’t sit well with local small town government and, number two, did I mention we live in the country?  You know, the place with raccoons and bears and way too smart crows.

But now we have a tasteful New Englandy shed positioned just off the road behind a tree where it is hardly noticeable.  It has a strong latch to foil all but the most determined of wildlife.  (I’m not worried, most of our wildlife is pretty lazy actually.)  I can drive garbage down anytime and only have to wheel the containers a few feet to the end of the drive.  Oh Joy!

Yes, I know.  A far cry from the girl who danced the night away at Studio 54.  We get older. Priorities change.  A new garbage shed becomes a bellwether event.  It’s who I am now.  Besides, if I ever get nostalgic, there’s room in the shed to hang a disco ball.

The New Studio 54

The New Studio 54

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