exposed to the elements like anyone who really cared for their belongings would allow. From my perspective, Mom processed her things by asking for a bin and checking its contents for either ten seconds or an hour before solemnly directing me where to relocate it.
Partly out of exhaustion and partly to lighten the mood, I jumped into one of the empty plastic garbage bags, pulling it up to my waist like in a sack race.
“The filth has won! Please ask the garbageman if I can ride shotgun,” I proclaimed.
"You see why I don't want to do this? Is the room really worth it?" mom asked, pouncing on the surrender I dangled in front of her. I immediately jumped out, with renewed purpose. No way would she use her personal rationale to impede our progress. We were so close to finishing, just ten bins left.
"I don't know how you can expect me to watch TV with you all day and not notice that teenagers have their own bedrooms. I just want a normal space," I said.
She shook her head, throwing up her hands as if I was the one that couldn’t be reasoned with. Her Bakelite bracelets clinked together as they stacked themselves along her arms. It suddenly occurred to me that she even wore too much.
"I'll never understand why a bright, individualistic girl holds normalcy in such high regard," she said. I did her the courtesy of thinking about it. Something glum rose to mind but remembering the magazines, I figured it was an honesty she might understand.