It stresses me to my inner core to take out the garbage. The communal bins are at the end of the block, and I have to pull and pray the thin orange membrane containing three days of garbage doesn’t tear and turn the situation into an episode of Sitcom Liz.
This morning, after boker tov-ing my Mizrahi next-door neighbor on the way down, I successfully deposited the bag of potential ruin at the end of the block and made it back. Coming towards the building, I saw the same neighbor unloading the groceries from his car.
There are two things I have this bizarre desire to do when I see the following scenarios: help people bag their groceries when it’s piled too high and there’s a long line behind them, and help people unload their cars so they can avoid multiple trips.
I said hi and walked towards the trunk. “Need help?” I asked him in Hebrew.
“Nah,” he laughed.
“No really, let me help you.”
“No no no -” he protested, but I came up to the side of the trunk and took bags. “It’s heavy! No, it’s ok!”
Now I laughed. “I’m going up anyway,” and I bounded towards the stairs.
As I walked off, I heard him laugh again and say, “I’ve never had a woman help me before.”