Today I’m going to come at you with a confession. An indulgence of the ego, perhaps, but vital to my mental health. There’s a particular side of me that I’ve been hiding and in a closet, too, if you can believe it. And, no, I’m not going to begin with, “My name is Susan . . .” That would be way insensitive to those who do do that and pretty hokey, too. Opening this door is tough and, I hope, an admirable thing to do, plus, I trust you. So here goes.
I . . . whew . . . I . . . hang in here with me. I don’t know if I can. Wait, wait. Okay here goes again.
I save plastic. Yes! I do. I can’t help it. Let me rush headlong into my explanation before you whip out your judge, jury, and executioner cap. Please.
When I’m confronted with the cute little plastic cups from the grand kid’s Dora yogurt something seizes me. “This would be perfect for when they paint,” I say. “Or they could put their Skittles and M&M’s in here instead of in their hands.” So, I look quickly around and slide the thing into the dishwasher like nothing’s going on. Then later, by stealth, I add it to the sixteen others in the dish closet. Right there in the special section where the cottage cheese containers and soft cheese tubs reside.
Plastic is a vital part of our lives and economy. It’s a byproduct of oil. What would we do with all that stuff they make plastic from if we didn’t use it? What about the designers of plastic molds outta work and outta luck if there were no yogurt cups, salad bar boxes (often with sections) or rotisserie chicken containers for them to design? Saving their creations honors them. Think about that. The chicken containers especially. Those things are awesome! And so worth saving with their domed lids and sturdy black bottoms. Don’t even get me started on Cool Whip containers. I think recycling is a cruel and unusual punishment for our plastic friends. They melt them down, people.
A few weeks ago while scrabbling around in my plastic lid bin (YES – a special place for those, too) I realized I may have a problem. I got a quick flashback of the year we had to clean out my father-in-law’s kitchen after he died. I pulled down an old Chock Full-O – Nuts coffee can from a top shelf, opened it, and discovered a small hoard of plastic coffee scoops. Lots of colors, green, yellow, blue. Something in me stirred. A stirring I ignored for a while but, looking back, I think that was my “gateway” experience. Pop was onto something and I think about him often.
So now that I’ve confessed (thanks for listening) and thinking a bit more rationally, I may seek help. It’s getting harder and harder to find places to stash my plastic. In addition, my husband is an enabler. He hoards cardboard and bubble wrap. We don’t judge each other. But we sure would like to know about a good counselor, self help book, or weekly support group meeting. Anybody?
Image: Free Digital Photos