The other day, while fixing dinner, I took advantage of being stuck in the kitchen and cleaned out my refrigerator. Then I asked my husband to take the trash outside, and he complied obligingly.
“Anything else need to go in?” he asked, as he bent to gather the sides of the plastic bag into a knot.
“Nah,” I responded, distracted by a boiling pot. “It’s almost too heavy as it is.”
When I finished stirring the potatoes and adjusting the temperature of the burner, I turned back to him, a little curious as to what was holding up a usually quick process. And I found him flexing his muscles by hefting the bag in one hand like a dumbbell, up and down, up and down. Brows furrowing in utter confusion, I lifted my glance from the bobbing trash bag to his face.
“Too heavy,” he scoffed.
Slowly, realization dawned, and, rolling my eyes, I reassured him, “I meant too heavy for the plastic bag. Not too heavy for you.”
I’ve never before managed to question the strength of plastic and somehow slight my husband’s virility.
I think I’ve discovered a new talent.