Normally, on the rare occasion Kelly or I forget to take the trash to the curb, I jump out of bed at the sound of the trash truck. Like a really bad alarm clock because it is worse than most garbage rigs I think, and sounds like Truckasaurus (Simpsons reference) is falling apart all the way along our block. So it wakes me up like nothing else. I usually peek out and check for our bin and if Kelly remembered I go back to sleep. If he hurried to work and passed it, I will throw on the ugg boots and a robe and drag it to the truck as it rumbles along. That was then.
This is now. This is where the cussing starts. Today I woke up and it took me a whole minute to remember what day it was. Then I rocked back and forth to get into position. Gently sat up and swung my legs off the bed. After catching my breath I realized what I was hearing was the sound of the trash man already a few doors down. Past my house. :( I peeked out the curtains and our bin had not moved since yesterday. Darnit. I stumble into the living room and blindly grab around for shoes. Flail into my robe ( Kellys robe I have adopted) and open the front door. I think the preparation took 87 years because the trash collecting rickety crumpet wagon has rumbled and groaned onto the next block. This trash will have to wait till next week.
Moment of clarity: I am no longer able to "Hop out of bed and jet out the door" at all. Not the hopping part. Not the jetting. None of it. Argh. I miss hopping and jetting.