Hippy See, Yuppy Do

During one of my many trying-to-define-myself phases, I prescribed to the nouveau hippy lifestyle, by which I mean to say that I was not a radical of the Vietnam era that supported an actual cause, but that I was a wannabe of the late 90s/early 00s that wore flowy hemp skirts, protested at the occasional political rally when I didn’t feel like going to class and smoked a shit-ton of pot. Having realized that those skirts are not flattering and that crossing a picket line for an ice cream cone is frowned on, I evolved - along with a solid portion of that crowd. I like to think that we ex-hippies are a big part of the current green movement. Yes, we work our yuppy, corporate jobs to pay the bills but by God, we also drive Priuses and put our groceries in canvas bags. Or, in my particular case, we get horny about recycling.

Granted, I’m not scaling back on my lengthy showers or going too far out of my way to help save the planet, but that’s exactly what I like about recycling. It takes zero brain power and minimal effort to toss your plastic, aluminum, glass, and paper into different containers. With every sorted Diet Coke can, I am personally keeping 13 grams of waste out of a landfill – and if you’ve ever smelled northern New Jersey, you know that any help should be appreciated. I’ve even trained Beau to rinse his beer bottles and stash them in a separate trash bag!

Having recycling services available in your area and not making use of them seems beyond my conception of the most slovenly, lazy behavior. It seems downright malicious given the results of current research on the environment. Go ahead and make excuses: you’re too busy, your small contribution doesn’t mean anything, you don’t like the look of extra bins in your kitchen. Just don’t come crying to me when the polar ice caps melt and your grand children are carried away in the flood. I’ll be safely afloat in a tiny car that gets awesome gas mileage. I don’t make this stuff up people; it’s science.

One of my particular pet peeves is watching commuters drop their morning paper in the trash as soon as they step off the train. It doesn’t seem to be asking too much to hold onto it until they reach the office where there is inevitably a blue recycling bin under every desk. Imagine my delight when Boston began putting specific newspaper recycling bins on the platforms of most major subway stops for your morning Metro. Despite the fact that a slim percentage uses them, it warms my heart.

On my way out of the subway this morning, I saw a young respectable-looking woman spit into one such receptacle. I slowed to rubber neck and tilt my head to one side in my curious fashion. The dichotomy was fascinating. She was dressed in business casual attire yet had unmistakably expelled saliva in public during the morning rush hour. Is this what we’ve stooped to? Haven't we done enough to the planet already?

I couldn’t help but continue to gawk on my way out. That’s how I ascertained that she was not in fact chawin’ tabacky or anything of the sort. She was in the middle of vomiting. Truly, I sympathized with her predicament, but instead of being grossed out like the other commuters, my secondary emotion was just irritation over her regurgitation ruining a perfectly good bin of recyclables.

Of course, since it’s Friday and karma has a way of finding me at inopportune moments, I’ll probably end up puking a liter of rum directly into a recycling truck tonight.