Wednesday, September 08, 2004

Rubbish

Barren Mare's beautiful post on boredom got me to thinking, examining my own state of boredom. I am bored with infertility, bored with worrying about it, bored with everything that it entails. Since I'm bored with my own boredom, I thought instead that I'd ponder my husband's boredom--which is considerable.

He has a resourceful nature, many interests and a cheerful disposition, but ten weeks of my unemployment and four months of his own have, apparently, taxed him excessively. We have watched too much television, stared listlessly at walls, and found ourselves in the car without anywhere to go. I worried that we would eventually drive each other crazy.

The situation was clearly dire when I found him, not just perusing, but ogling pictures in a catalog.

The catalog was not from Victoria's Secret, or even a sporting goods outlet. It was, sadly, from the Alameda Waste Management District. And the pictures were of what appeared to be large, black trash cans.

"But no, love, they're not trash cans--they're compost bins! Do you realize how much compost we could generate every year? I bet we can produce enough to fill half of our tomato bins, easy!"

I stared, agape, thinking he must surely be joking. He couldn't seriously be fired up about dirt, right?

J., radiant with newfound enthusiasm, proceeded to wax rhapsodic about the benefits of compost, the various options and devices, and whether or not we should incorporate worms.

Worms. Jesus. The man's able to distract himself with the thought of kitchen scraps and worms.

Would that it were so easy for me.

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