Because I live in the greatest country ever dreamed up and made real, I have the time, freedom and mental energy to think through nonsense such as this. Much gratitude to the founding fathers. I wouldn't be here without you. Love you guys. I mean it.
Yesterday I happened to read about a woman who washes out and reuses her ziploc baggies. She does this from a "waste not, want not" perspective, while also doing her small part to conserve resources and throw away less stuff. Before you start rolling your eyes at me (yes, I can see you, stop it already), I'm not even within a stone's throw of earth-worshiping environmental maniac territory. But I do like to keep a clean house, and the earth is the only home I have.
I thought through her reasoning, and it made sense. I could easily see myself doing the same with absolutely no negative impact upon my time or lifestyle.
So why is it that when I rinsed out my avocado-half-containing baggie this morning and laid it to rest bottom side up on the draining board, I had the distinct feeling that I had taken the first, irrevocable step into crazy lady town?
And now I am sitting on pins and needles, knowing that the moment I step foot outside my door, I will be ambushed by all the homeless cats in the neighborhood, assuming that they now have the green light to move in with me. I can feel their bulgy eyes piercing through my walls.
Thanks a lot, baggie washing woman who put this fool idea in my head.
There are those who will tell you it’s
ReplyDeleteharmless, that it won’t lead to the hard stuff.
But soon there will be piles of washed ziplock bags, of all sizes, crowding the kitchen. And the bags that tear when you wash them – you start cutting off and saving the zipper part.
Indeed, the cats have helped themselves and moved in without being invited, knowing it was in the cards anyway. They could smell it in the air. They made their move.
And now you feed them. Soon you can’t move around the house without knocking over stacks of empty Fancy Feast cans. You save them because one day you plan to makes them into ashtrays and sell them on Craigs List or at a swap meet.
By now, the ubiquitous newspapers are stacked to the ceiling, forming tunnels throughout the house. You just know you’re going to re-read them all some day. And every cabinet and closet is stuffed with National Geographic Magazines.
As things deteriorate, those close to you give up trying to save you. Even the guy with the Art Garfunkel crotch quits calling.
This is what it has come to.