My goal to rid my life of plastic for just seven days seemed so unambitious that I felt sheepish about bringing it up to two recycling virtuosos.
"It's not underwhelming," Nancy Lo, a waste reduction and recycling specialist at Hennepin County, reassured me. "You should definitely start small."
Modern America is swimming in plastic, a major convenience to our lives. But many of us don't think of the consequences for the planet every time we use plastic. Even a disposable shopping bag might take hundreds of years to decompose.
Unlike glass or aluminum, plastic can be recycled only once or twice before it becomes trash, explained one of Lo's colleagues, Amy Maas. And while we can be confident that our milk jugs and water bottles will find another purpose if we recycle them, much of the 110 pounds of plastic each of us uses every year cannot be recycled.
But how realistic is it to abstain from plastic? And what does it really mean to go plastic-free?
"Going totally plastic-free is very, very difficult and basically unfeasible," Maas said. "The focus is really on avoiding single-use plastics and any new plastics if you have the option."
That meant I could continue using my Tupperware, scroll on my iPhone, fry an egg with my plastic spatula, brush my teeth with toothpaste from a plastic tube, work from my plastic office chair, wear T-shirts made of cotton and polyester (a common plastic), and make purchases with plastic.
Yet even with these liberties, I discovered that avoiding single-use plastic requires a level of strategy and communication that isn't easy for my naturally scattered brain, especially because I was also planning my two sons' birthday party that week.
Here's my journal of trying to go plastic-free:
Day 1: I arrive at the grocery store with three large reusable totes and several secondhand plastic bags for produce. Still, many of the items I buy are packaged in plastic, from grapes to flank steak. Instead of buying my regular gallon-size jugs of milk, I opt for half-gallon cartons, which are more expensive because it's organic.
I also purchase two greeting cards, which the cashier slips into a plastic grocery bag. I don't have the heart to make a fuss over this kind gesture, so I discreetly put the bag back.
Day 2: I'm heading into the office, so I pack my meal in a glass container. I also remember to bring silverware, which I never seem to do, and resolve to keep it at my desk. Yay for the tiny win.
That evening, we meet my parents for dinner to celebrate the boys' nearly adjacent birthdays. Our server brings water glasses for the adults, but the boys' beverages come in small disposable cups with straws. I'm learning that going plastic-free means you must not only plan ahead for yourself, but anticipate the well-meaning actions of strangers.
I end the meal with a pro move: On Lo's advice, I've brought four Tupperware bins for leftovers so we can bypass the restaurant's take-home Styrofoam and plastic containers. My parents go home with a bin, too. I feel like a champ.
Day 3: I meet a friend for lunch at a skyway salad joint. I'm thrilled that the clear disposable salad bowls go in the food waste bin, suggesting they are compostable. I've brought my fork and steel water bottle and dine guilt-free. (I later learn, however, that the bowls are plastic — though recyclable. Bummer.)
A few of my colleagues and I host an ice cream social that afternoon. I mention that I'm going plastic-free, and my co-worker points to the bottles of chocolate syrup and sprinkles and pouches of toppings — all of which I've purchased — and says, "Isn't this ... plastic?"
Well, yes, I explain, but before the party, I scrambled to find a Target that sold compostable tableware and bought the last five boxes in stock. I even toted my countertop compost bin to the office and directed people to throw their cups and spoons in there. But as the social winds down, I'm horrified by what catches my eye on the counter: WHO BROUGHT SPORKS?! I feel like I'm at war with the thoughtfulness of others.
Day 4: I'm stressing out about the boys' birthday party in four days and questioning my decision to go plastic-free this week. We've requested no gifts, but what about party favors for the 24 guests? Goodie bags are usually filled with wrapped candy, plastic fidgets and miniature disc shooters. I decide to keep it simple and sustainable by ordering a tiny puzzle for each guest.
And instead of Gatorade or juice boxes (which contain straws), I buy cans of pop and sparkling fruit juice. We will not be offering bottles of water; I make a note to bring our water dispenser and stacks of paper cups.
Day 5: We're invited to join some other families on the patio of the Trailhead, the pavilion at Theodore Wirth Regional Park, for dinner and drinks. This is an easy yes for me because I know the restaurant there uses silverware and compostable cups and baskets. I ride the high of enjoying a spring evening dining out with friends on a clear conscience.
Day 6: The party favors arrive on my doorstep in multiple shipments. I try not to dwell on the carbon footprint left by the Amazon deliveries, and breathe a sigh of relief that all of the mini-puzzles, made of cardboard, show up in recyclable brown paper packaging.
Day 7: Party day. I pick up the sheet cake from Costco, knowing it will be encased in plastic. In a moment of pre-party-panic, I toss plastic trays of croissants and chicken salad into the cart, lest our guests go hungry. We haul it all — including the compostable forks, paper cups and plates, water jug and canned beverages — to the soccer dome.
Despite my valiant efforts, after the party, I learn from the custodian that everything tossed into the organic food waste bin (including compostable tableware and food-soiled paper products) will be thrown in the garbage anyway. I feel like Sisyphus forever pushing up a boulder of plastic.
It's a relief when the week ends. But my hope is my new mentality will stick around forever. Kind of like that plastic bag.
