Singled out

No one in our house will feel the pinch like I will. That delicate friction between film and fingers to break the static.

The dreaded plastic shopping bag, rendered this day verboten by state law, holds a complicated place in my heart ... and my home.

They spill out from under the sink. Jammed into open-ended crocheted sleeves that look like dolls or balled up and stuffed into the emptied husks of tissue boxes, the loopy ends of handles jut through a transparent gasket for ease and access. Always at the ready for a second and final use.

I use them as liners for bathroom trash, Receptacles for clumped cat litter, and Sequestration for soggy swimsuits and sweaty gym clothes.

I'd be lying if I told you I was entirely on board with the planned obsolescence of these inglorious gossamer garbage bags, as I have tended to think of them ever since a store clerk first asked me to make the decision: paper or plastic?

I head for this stash of bags whenever I have to scoop up a cat's regurgitated hairball or a freshly disemboweled rodent.

The thin film of protection comforts me as I clean up even the most grizzly of messes.

It's selfish to worry about what will

happen when my stockpile of store bags becomes depleted in a year or two ... or five.

Of course, we consumers will adapt.

If we can't retrain ourselves to use produce or bread bags, we'll just buy them new by the roll.

You can even purchase a bag of bags in regular or scented varieties. Top shelf, aisle seven, right above kitchen-sized trash bags.

I don't want to be the acid rain on the save the environment parade. But here I stand anyway.

Unable to think of my new, reusable plastic totes, and the trendy market bags that I will buy on impulse at the checkout, as anything else but a clever and stylish way to hide the fact that the myriad problems we have with waste hinge on something else.

I think back to my 70s-era childhood and the emotional message of The Keep America Beautiful ads starring Espera Oscar de Corti, better known by his stage name, Iron Eye Cody. Dressed as a Native American, the actor shed a single tear, and roadside litter became a problem we tackled as a nation.

Though it never occurred to us then that the unsightly trash we have cleaning up for at least two generations was only a symptom of the more significant disease that kept growing: overconsumption.

As I look at all the things I'm putting in my bag, I see all the pretty products in their double-wrapped plastics or encased in foam and peeking out of glassine windows. Plain is the likelihood that each component (if not the product itself) will inevitably make their way from our single-stream recycling containers to the belly of a whale in the open sea.

Yet somehow, the green-lidded can at the edge of my curb helps me feel better about my flippant purchases through the magic of wishful recycling.

But all is not lost. We are finally recognizing the problems with excess and the speed at which their effects are barreling toward us. We appreciate them in a new and terrifying meaning of "at a glacial pace."

A change in thinking is something we can all do.

Not to single anyone out, but ...

Husband! I'm looking at you right now. You can save the day and my ungloved hand by scooping up whatever the cat dragged in with a fully compostable banana peel your son left on the kitchen counter.