activism, Uncategorized

Action 3: Out Your Lunch Box


Remember when water bottles and travel mugs were weird anomalies?  When you had  to clip your cup to your rucksack with a carabiner and then ask for special permission to fill it from the soda fountain?

Now even briefcases come with mesh pockets for portable hydration. Monday through Friday in every office in America, a rainbow of screw-top coffee mugs and metal-glass-plastic reusable water bottles clutters every working surface.

Far better than cluttering landfills, yes?

So what’s stopping us from doing the same with our food containers?

Sure, carrying a container from home into the buffet line is weird.  People are puzzled.  The too-mannered-to-meddle Hyacinth Buckets huff and glance away as if they’ve caught you wearing sweatpants at the White House. The curious ask questions outright.

“Do you not like your food to touch?”

“Are you loading up on leftovers?”

This is where you smile and say, “One less piece of trash to litter the planet.”  If they want to know more, you happily share.

“My silverware fits right inside, see?”

“It’s like carrying cloth grocery bags.  Remembering to bring it is half the battle.”

“It’s no wind farm, but it’s a start.”

“Small effort for a planet that’s up against a lot right now.”

lunch-boxOffice lunches.  Networking events.  Even Thanksgiving dinner.  You can be sporting pinstripes and your most polished demeanor, and there you are loading spinach salad into your personal lunch box.

Small acts of environmental citizenship come naturally to anyone who understands basic science.    We do need to cut down on the unnecessary production of disposable plastic and paper goods.  Nevertheless, when we restrict the service of our noble containers to cafeterias and office pantries, the impact barely registers.

Something bigger starts to rumble when we carry this private action out into the public realm.

It’s taken me nearly a year to build the courage to bring the container into the light.  Ridiculous, right?   Apparently, I needed to climb up and over some vague internal obstacles.  Might people in the world — especially colleagues and potential professional associates — see me as a some kind of compulsive food-hoarder?  Will they think I’m passing judgment on the quality of their dinnerware?   Maybe they’ll decide I’m just sloppy and uncouth, because pretty ladies sport slim clutches and nourish themselves on saucer-sized servings of crudités.  What kind of girl schleps Pyrex around in her handbag?

The shift came when I finally sensed the prickling dissonance between my behavior and my values.  Questions about my motives itched at me.  Is my need to manage impressions so great that I’ll trash our common home just to keep people from looking at me funny?  Isn’t it the case that I’d rather model love and care towards our planet, and engage in conversations about that?

The cost of carrying the container… a negligible and quite possibly imaginary hit to my  image.

The cost of not carrying the container… a growing pile of poisonous waste as well as a missed opportunity to blaze the Tupperware trail.

It was a simple calculation.  I outed my lunch box.  We stand tall in the buffet line now.

Join me if you dare.  Haul it out at the next holiday party and get ready to walk the talk and talk the walk.

Small effort for a planet that’s up against a lot right now.

Also, you get to take home leftovers.

3 thoughts on “Action 3: Out Your Lunch Box”

  1. I Ride Greyhound by Ellie Schoenfeld
    because it’s like being
    in a John Steinbeck novel.
    Next best thing is the laundromat.
    That’s where all people
    who would be on the bus if they had the money
    hang out. This is my crowd.
    Tonight there are cleaning people appalled
    at the stupidity of anyone
    who would put powder detergent
    into the clearly marked LIQUID ONLY slot.
    The couple by the vending machine
    are fondling each other.
    You’d think the orange walls
    and fluorescent lights
    would dampen that energy
    but it doesn’t seem to.
    It’s a singles scene here on Saturday nights.
    I confide to the fellow next to me
    that I suspect I am being taken
    in by the triple loader,
    maybe it doesn’t hold any more
    than the regular machines
    but I’m paying an extra fifty cents.
    I tell him this meaningfully
    holding handfuls of underwear.
    He claims the triple loader
    gives a better wash.
    I don’t ask why,
    just cruise over to the pop machine,
    aware that my selection
    may provide a subtle clue.
    I choose Wild Berry,
    head back to my clothes.

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