Why Bin Day is the Worst Part of Divorce

Oh, it’s been a while since I sat down and wrote freely about something that resonates deeply with me. You see, since separating from my other half five years ago, the mute button was firmly pressed and held down by the weight of not just fear of other people’s opinions but my inner fear of adopting a victim mentality. Rather than posting cryptic quotes and woe-is-me captions, I kept my socials a happy and positive place with absolutely no sign of the coggs falling off behind the scenes. However, one of my strengths (trauma responses) is that I can always find the humour in sad or stressful situations. And these little glimmers are what I want to share with you all. If I can make just one single woman find the humour in what is, without a doubt, a total sh*t-show of a time, then my work here is done.

I’ve learned a lot from being single again after a 12-year relationship. I’ve learned that 3 days after the breakdown of a relationship is not the best time to be getting Invisalign braces, (you try saying divortttthe with a lisp, ssssolicitor, maintenanccccccce, the list goes on). I’ve learned that shedding the security of a relationship can empower you to do things you never thought you were capable of and the newfound freedom is downright exhilarating at times but most of all I’ve learned that unlike the huge waves of grief and loneliness that come hand in hand with separation and divorce, it’s the tiny ripples that will knock you off your feet. For me, that was bin day.

Dude where’s my bin?

I would always hit the ground running on a Monday, my daughter would be at nursery which would mean time to put the house back together, wash my hair and re-stock the fridge and I would flop into bed on Monday nights feeling accomplished and organised. Flash forward to Tuesday mornings and I’d be feeding the dog while doing my daughter’s hair while simultaneously trying to gulp a litre of vitamin-infused water because Gwyneth Paltrow’s Instagram said I should all with one ear pricked for the sound of the bin man. Every week, it wasn’t the barrage of solicitor emails, overdrawn texts or wedding invitations that knocked me off my A-game. It was the dreaded D-day, or should I say B-day. Nothing will make you feel like you don’t have your sh*t together like bin day. It took me months to get the right colour bin out at the right time and that was only because my 2-year-old daughter told me it was black bin day.

My family and friends were shocked when some of my daughter’s first words were ‘black bin mummy’ but I was just glad it wasn’t WHAT FUCKING BIN IS IT??. My daughter and I have bonded over bin day and now five years on it’s something we have perfected down to a T. We are a finely tuned bin emptying machine, tackling bin day as a team. We have our own (b) in jokes and we now can both laugh about the time mummy cried “happy” tears in front of the neighbours when she failed to put the black bin out twice in a row.

As someone who is naturally quite very codependent, suddenly finding myself as a single mum was extremely disconcerting. In my married life, I wouldn’t board a plane on my own, sleep in the house on my own or have any bills coming out of my account because, well… responsibility. *shiver* You’re probably wondering how someone with a degree can get bamboozled by bin day. You see, bin day wasn’t ever my job, it was my husband’s and sometimes if I got lucky, the kind neighbour’s job or my mum’s job if she arrived at the right time. But now it was mine and I was overwhelmed.

Let me count the ways. Firstly you have to know what day it is, which is honestly not my forte on a good day when I’ve had more than 30 seconds of sleep never mind when you have a newborn and you don’t know your arse from your elective c-section. But most of all, it’s frowned upon to not wear a bra and when you have postpartum double D’s and a baby balancing on your hip, putting your wheelie bin out on a Tuesday morning at the exact right time and place should quite frankly be considered an extreme sport. Then it never gets put back where you live and you have to embark on a Crystal Maze-esque (green bin edition) search around the streets to identify your green bin in a sea of identical green bins. Lastly, the truck always arrives when you are in your pyjamas and it’s never the fancy ones.

So I guess why I’m telling you all of this is because I’m shocked and appalled that bin day is a part of divorce that isn’t really talked about. Not once did I hear about any relatable bin day fails on all of those Divorced Not Dead Caroline Stanbury podcasts that I would listen to on the daily, nor did I hear about it on Poosch or in my favourite empowering Little Mix song so I’m here to be the spokesperson for being sh*t at bin day. I’ve pre-ordered Stacey Duguid’s book (and I recommend you do too) about her experience with marriage and mayhem this morning so perhaps she will mention it? Maybe we can get a bin x Bottega collab going?

I’m just a girl standing in front of a bin asking it to empty itself.

Leave me a comment if you enjoyed my first glimmer of post-divorce humour and if anyone wants to join my bin day support group, it’s called Oi that’s my bin. JOKING.

Or am I?