I have approximately 37 reusable shopping bags.
I say approximately because nobody really knows. They’re in the hall closet. Under the kitchen sink. In the laundry room. There may be three in the trunk of a car I’m not currently driving.
And yet, every single time I arrive at a store, the cashier asks:
“Do you need a bag?”
And I stand there like a woman who has never encountered the concept of transporting groceries before.
“Yes, please.”
ANOTHER BAG.
I don’t need another reusable bag. I need a reusable-bag intervention.
The worst part is that every time I buy a new one, I make the same solemn promise:
I’m putting this one in the car.
No, I’m not.
I’m taking it into the house, folding it neatly, putting it with the other 36 bags and completely forgetting its existence until the next time I come home carrying reusable bag number 38.
I’ve tried keeping them by the front door.
I walked past them.
I’ve hung them on the doorknob.
I moved them because they were in my way.
I’ve put them in my purse.
Then I changed purses.
At this point, I think reusable bags have become less of an environmental initiative and more of a collection.
Some women collect shoes.
Some collect handbags.
Apparently, I collect grocery bags that have never actually seen a grocery store twice.
And somehow I always remember the one thing that truly matters:
My purse.
Because heaven forbid I leave home without 14 receipts, three lip balms I don’t use, reading glasses and a loyalty card for a store that closed in 2019.
But the shopping bags?
Sitting safely at home.
All 37 of them.
Waiting for number 38. 😂
Arctic Blonde Society — getting older, getting wiser…and still buying the damn bag.
