We are who we choose to be.

Even when circumstances require us to be something specific, the choices we endeavour to make tell us a great deal about ourselves.

Lately, I have been trying to make more responsible choices. Like drinking significantly less and finally hauling my ass to the dentist to figure out exactly how much damage I’ve done by routinely bathing my teeth in stomach acid as a consequence of said drinking.

Turns out, I’m doing all right. But I made a really stupid decision on Sunday.

In sorting out my life, I was cleaning out my room. In the process, I figured I could just throw out a bag full of my own personal information, as long as it was buried deep inside a larger garbage bag full of the grossest stuff lingering in my fridge.

It isn’t even ten minutes after I’ve pitched this thing that someone climbs into my building’s dumpster and begins tearing through everything inside it. I watch him as I scrape the frost off of my car.

Eventually, he emerges from the dumpster, places a few items in his bag, and wanders off down the dark alley.

I figure whatever damage I’ve done, I can’t undo now. I drive off into the night, across the river to the apartment where I’m catsitting, wondering what steps I might now take to protect myself from the machinations of this clever fiend.

He’s going to get access to my credit cards. He’ll take out new ones in my name. Empty my bank account.

Victimize me.

Ruin my life.

Do I call Visa? Do I call the cops?

Even if I went back and climbed into the dumpster and found some of those bills and statements and stubs, I couldn’t be sure I got them all.

But at least I could be sure no one else would get whatever else wasn’t already being traded to gangsters for crack.

If I don’t at least check, I won’t sleep.

I drive back across town. I get out of my car and walk towards the dumpster as someone passes with her dog.

I’m too stressed to worry about my pride.

I open the dumpster with my left hand and flash my smartphone inside with the right.

There it is.

The green plastic bag that I had been careful to bury inside a larger bag among decaying produce and month’s-sour milk.

It’s now out in the open, so I grab it before anyone else can. There’s only one thing that I’m certain is missing.

A not-quite-rotten banana.

I remember, earlier that afternoon, thinking it was probably still good, but just not worth the chance.