Yesterday, near the end of a busy afternoon: me, putting out the garbage. Going down four flights of stairs to the street level, dumping the bag into one of the building's plastic garbage caddies. I then climb four flights of stairs back up to my piso where I discover I'm out of replacement garbage bags. It's late enough in the day that there are no stores open around here where I might pick some up. I dig out an old plastic bread bag to use for organic waste until I can pick up the real thing tomorrow.
So. This evening. I'm in the kitchen making something to eat. I realize the floor could stand a sweeping, I grab the broom and do it. When I'm finished, I remember the garbage sitch. The bag with the organic trash is narrow-mouthed enough that I could easily scatter back to the floor as much dustpan dirt as I manage to get into the bag. Which left me standing, suddenly indecisive, evaluating what to do. At which point a small voice from somewhere back in the darker regions of my teeny little brain spoke up.
"Pssst," it said. "Toss it out the window."
The window? I thought in surprised reply.
"Sure!" it said. "It's not like you've got a mountain of sweepings to dump. It'll just maybe sprinkle a few people with dust, hair, some airborne dirt. No big deal."
My inner college-age meathead found this idea mighty enticing, the little voice knew it, cranking up the persuasion just a touch.
"Come on," it wheedled, "it'll be great! Just think what a BAD thing it would be to do!"
Er, I hemmed, tempted, but knowing it really *would* be a bad thing to do.
"Hey," the little bugger persisted, "you're five stories up! By the time the stuff reaches the street, your window will be closed. No one'll see you! Who's gonna know?"
I'd know. I'd know, and with that awareness, any possibility of doing the deed evaporated, as much as the doing of that particular naughty deed might have delighted the anarchistic punkboy in me. There was simply no rationalizing away the strong possibility that some person, someone minding their own business, might wind up wearing part of the grunion from my kitchen floor.
Man, what a grown-up. What a good boy. Me, not straying over to the dark side, despite the strong temptation of a sure-fire, low-brow cheap thrill.
I can't tell you how obnoxiously, goofily smug this has made me.