COMMENTARY: Confessions Of A Styrofoam Addict

They say confession is good for the soul, so I’ve decided it’s time to put mine up on the rack and do a little repair work.

So, here goes; I probably ate the last of (fill in the blank: Anything that was good, that there wasn’t much of and that someone else wanted and probably deserved more). I occasionally read “People” magazine — and more than just the movie and book reviews. And (this is the biggie here), when I’m at home and no one else is around, I drink all my drinks out of … Styrofoam cups.

OK, so, I sometimes do it in public. And at work. And at fast food restaurants. And in my car. And anywhere else I want to drink something, which is basically everywhere I am, since I’m seldom more than about three feet from a Diet Dr Pepper.

People are often addicted to the contents of a Styrofoam cup. I may be the first person addicted to the cup itself.

That’s because it’s just so, well, perfect. It sits there in your cup holder or on your desk. It doesn’t sweat. It doesn’t punish you by collapsing in all over the center console of your car if you forget about it for a few days. It keeps your cold drinks cold and your hot drinks hot. I mean, how does it know?

You can have manned flight and internal combustion and all that other stuff. For my money, Styrofoam may be the pinnacle of human invention. That and the charcoal chimney. And ESPN.

It also gives rise to one of life’s great puzzles: If you want to send Styrofoam to someone, what do you pack it in?

However, it’s the beautiful, horrible perfection that is Styrofoam that gives rise to my need for absolution. That’s because Styrofoam, like the pink bunny and your maiden aunt’s stories, just keeps going on and on and on.

The cup you tossed in the trash last week showed up a landfill a few days later, and 100 years from now it will still be there, next to the halfeaten Twinkie and Jimmy Hoff a.

And that’s a quandary for me, because, while I’m not a certified tree hugger, I’m at least prone to giving them an affectionate pat and a few kind words.

We’re big recyclers here at the Casa Del Smith, to the point where that olive green can we’re provided for our plastic and cardboard and such is generally fuller than our trash. We haul glass to the recycle center, turn the thermostat up in the summer and down in the winter and actually have an operational rain barrel (OK, it’s a barrel. Rain goes in it. No moving parts. Not sure exactly how that qualifies as “operational,” but there you go.).

We’ve even been known to haul empty plastic bottles around on vacation until we fi nd a recycle can and dig stuff out of the trash if a guest put his can in the wrong container. We’re about an inch and half from being really, really annoying, even to ourselves. Next thing you know we’ll all turn into vegans and become completely insufferable.

So you can imagine the internal conflict that occurs on the Disposable Housewares aisle at the local Walmart when I have to decide between the sinfully efficient, planet destroying Styrofoam cup and it’s infinitely less efficient but definitely more recyclable (and lyrically inspirational) red Solo cousin.

All right, yes, I’m willing to accept that in a world of pain and suffering, this isn’t exactly the burning question of our generation and probably shouldn’t be consuming all that much of my time. I mean, I’m not really one to hold up the whole checkout process debating the merits of paper or plastic.

But there is a slippery slope quality to my affinity for Styrofoam that bears watching. Next thing you know I’ll be throwing my loose wrappers in the back of a pickup truck and marveling that the Trash Fairies came and got them all on my ride home.

Or maybe not. Maybe this is my one great planet-damaging vice, mitigated to some degree by the fact that I usually wash my Styrofoam cups out and reuse them for days (I just can’t help myself. One part environmentally conscious, many parts cheap).

So, at this point, the best you’re going to get from me is confession. As far as sinning no more, well, I’ll just have to work on that. In the meantime, I’ll have a cold drink. From my Styrofoam cup.

GARY SMITH IS A RECOVERING JOURNALIST LIVING IN ROGERS.

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