Written by David Everette
Plastic would have to be an ever increasing bane in my existence. It’s not the bits blowing around the street or the bags floating in the waterways. It’s not even the impending Summer that brings with it the sharp edges of a Zooper Dooper ready to slice the corners of my mouth.
Individually each of these is enough to cause weeping and gnashing of teeth, let alone the compounded damage of them as a collective. Rather, the true, albeit selfish bane of plastic is in its role in reminding me of my ever deteriorating physical condition.
Can you remember that feeling of unrestrained joy when you were a child and got a new toy, ripping that bag open to release the treasure inside ready for instantaneous play?
What about as a teen when, with a deft flick of the wrist, you would tear open a bag of snakes to grab the first red one before any of your friends could?
Or a few years later sticking your finger through the plastic wrapping of a six pack of West Coast Coolers to carry it out of the bottle shop?
Yes, I admit that I really did drink West Coast Coolers for a time, as my appreciation for the taste of beer didn’t develop until late into my 20’s. Now though a rich dark ale or hoppy IPA is where it is at. But I digress and should carry on with my lamentations on plastic.
Now days the sight of something sealed in plastic or contained in a plastic bag, without the ‘easy tear’ bit on the edge, gets me twitching and reaching for the nearest knife or pair of scissors.
Let me make it clear though, that hard moulded clear plastic with the heat sealed edges that so many items come in now doesn’t count. That stuff would have Sampson weeping on Delilah’s shoulder if she hadn’t already pulled out a blade and slit the packet of hair ties open in an attempt to stop the embarrassing spectacle going on before her.
Some people measure advancing age through the creaking of their bones, the depth of lines upon their face, or the increasing frequency in which you are targeted with the offer a free 5-minute hearing check when you wander through Stocklands.
For me though, plastic is my measure of advancing age. The less frequently or the greater difficulty with which I can tear open a sealed plastic bag with my bare hands, the more I am reminded that my youth is now behind me.
Perhaps it’s a Karmic balance thing, intended to keep my ego in check whenever someone tells me I don’t look my age. But given mother nature doesn’t give a damn about it then it’s probably just coincidental and a demonstration of my need to exercise.