A long time ago -- long about 1980, it was, because I remember where I was living at the time -- I had a startling moment while replacing the plastic bag in my kitchen garbage pail. Holding the bag by the top, I gave it a mighty sweeping shake of the sort one gives plastic bags in order to open them up by inflating. It opened with a great whoosh, followed by a large pop. I had blown the bottom out of the bag.
For the longest time afterwards (like the better part of a decade) I was much gentler when inflating plastic garbage bags to avoid blowing the bottom out, until at last it occurred to me that if the bottom of the bag was going to come apart, wouldn't I rather it did it when empty instead of when I was pulling it out of the garbage pail and it was full of old spaghetti and coffee grounds and egg shells?
Of course, I would. So now whenever I swhoosh a bag, I do it with gusto because, yes, I would rather know the defects of the bag immediately, and besides, the bags I use now don't have a seam at the bottom, so they won't break there anyway.
But I can't put in a new plastic bag in the kitchen garbage can without thinking about the one that blew out on me 31 years ago, and since I just now took the garbage out and replaced the bag, I was thinking about it again.
If you've ever wondered where fugitive thoughts come from ... now you know.
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