GROCERY SHOPPING IS not for the faint of heart. Every second Saturday, I woke with tremors knowing that I would have to lace up, ship out and somehow make it back alive with dinner. The East Village crowds I had learned to fend off, swimming through strangers to grab frozen pizzas and fajita mixes. But the sheer physical pain of carrying plastic sacks home a half-mile, two or three committed to each forearm, had me worried I would lose a limb before the ice cream melted.
My husband, John, felt the same way, though a fictitious interest in posted advertisements on the sides of bus stops and storefronts muffled his complaints “This guy’s offering a man with a van for only $50. Let me get a closer look,” he’d say, lowering his bags to the ground and shaking out his arms.
“Our lease isn’t up for 15 months.”
“I just like to know my options.”
The plastic cut deep, both into our skin and the environment. We didn’t own any of those trendy canvas totes to use in their place, and after accumulating books and clothing and knick-knacks over the past four years, our 500-square-foot walk-up apartment had no room left. In moments of environmental panic, when we were bombarded by inconvenient truths that we, two well-mannered 28-year-olds, were batting against Mother Nature, we promised ourselves we would recycle the bags we had amassed over time. Once the panic subsided, the ever-increasing pile behind our couch went unnoticed in the face of everyday living.
The weekly journey to Trader Joe’s became a dreaded mission, my fingertips turning sympathy-violet before I even entered the store. We tried buying a smaller amount more often, but our busy calendars forced us to skip every few trips and we ate out more than our budget allowed. Comparing the weight of a real egg against the weight of a nest egg, we reverted to bimonthly excursions.
During a fateful trek last July, the sun and tourists tag-teaming against us, I knew we had to find an alternative. I suggested we stop eating. John had a better idea.
“Why don’t we get one of those portable shopping handcarts?” he asked. “We can store it behind the couch and get rid of our bag stockpile.”
We always mocked people on the street with carts, winked at one another as we made silly jokes about rummaging in garbage cans and living with cats. But I was willing to endure ridicule if it meant keeping my arms intact.We would also be doing our part to rid the world of a plastic bag dependency, which lightened our load in more than one way.
“Let’s do it,” I said. “It’ll be hobo-chic, like an Olsen twin.” I began composing my Nobel Peace Prize speech.
I researched donation venues for plastic bags and was surprised by the large list of takers: day-care centers, thrift stores, libraries and pet shops throughout New York held their arms open to receive the goods. We had kept the bags hostage for so long, clinging to a misguided belief that they would reassemble into a new house or automobile if we held out long enough.
Learning that someone had an immediate use for them showed the futility of waiting. I tossed every bag, along with any guilt I had about not acting sooner, into a larger sack and brought them to an animal shelter.
John and I went to a cart vendor in Chinatown the following Saturday, where we found 10 colors and four sizes from which to choose. We wheeled our purchase, a medium-sized black handcart, straight to the supermarket and filled it with light hands.
Walking home, accompanied by more food than we could fit in our refrigerator, John pushed with one arm and draped the other around my shoulders. I might have been prancing.
“How many bags do you think this would have filled?” John asked me.
I looked at the cans, boxes and tubs nestled together, mentally placing bread on top of cereal before dismissing the question.
“Who cares?” I snorted. “Bags are so passé.” I reached into the cart for an apple and happily munched all the way home.
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