The trash pickup was delayed by a day, which was a good thing.
See, the trash cans are in the back yard, and the back yard is surrounded by a wooden privacy fence and the gate in the fence was held closed by a drifted mass that could only be described as a pygmy glacier; a foot-thick layer cake of solid ice on top of some stuff the consistency of Hell's own snowcone, and then more solid ice below that. The area around it, where I would have to stand or kneel to do my chopping and digging, was covered in a frozen slick of roof drippings that let the hatchet go sliding whenever it was set down, and caused me to demonstrate Newton's Third Law every time I stood up and tried to scoop my chippings out of the way with the shovel.
My goggles kept fogging. I broke a sweat kneeling there pounding away with the hatchet. After almost an hour, the end was nearly in sight; the gate was swinging further and further with each try, but if it went on much longer, I was afraid that I was going to collapse and my roomie would come home to find a Tamsicle in the side yard.
The trash cans made it to the street, but boy howdy, I got my exercise today.