Instead, I wait until the kitchen is spotless after dinner — usually around 10:30 p.m. — grab the garbage and haul it around the block to the bins. I look like a hobo Santa carrying two large Hefty bags over my shoulder, sometimes in my socks. But I get a glimpse into people’s homes, sample the night air and take stock of worldly affairs in the way that mindless chores allow. I could just go for a walk, but taking the trash has its own purpose and satisfaction that has nothing to do with exercise and everything to do with closure. It’s the perfect punctuation to an otherwise stressful week.
Therapy works in all sorts of surprising ways. Recently I learned how therapeutic garbage detail can be. Something bad happened at work the week before, an outlier, black swan mistake for a client. But it had consequences and none of my usual coping mechanisms — walking the dog, listening to jazz, being with family — were helping shake the nauseating kick to my self-esteem. I was losing sleep and heading to dire places. Another few days of this negative loop and I would have sought out a trained professional.
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