Someone once said there is a fine line between a hobby and a mental illness. That line becomes particularly blurry when your hobby is composting. The concept itself (carefully tending a pile of decaying organic matter) seems squarely outside the realm of normal human behavior, and I find my involvement with this hobby led to some slightly bizarre behavior.
For example, this afternoon I was explaining to Phillip the need to add some dry material to the compost pile to keep it from becoming a slimy mess full of smelly, anaerobic bacteria. My husband politely reminded me that we were having lunch, and asked if we could continue this riveting conversation later.
As for the aforementioned dry material, since I lack a yard to supply fallen leaves or lawn clippings (which you can dry out and then add to the pile), I have to seek alternative sources of dry stuff. I find I’m almost excited to get junk mail these days so I can shred it and add it to the compost pile. If the credit card pushers start slacking off, though, sometimes I have to load Baby into her stroller and pay a visit to a neighbor that doesn’t rake their leaves very often. I’m sure they appreciate the anonymous disposal of their yard waste, but I can only guess at the thoughts of passing motorists who watch me with slightly furrowed brows.
