recyclables: my cross to bear

At a lecture last night, food was served on those saucer-sized black plastic plates--the kind caterers must live, breathe, and cough up in the night. And while recycling bins lined the hallways, inviting cans, bottles, and paper goods, there was no option for my black plastic saucer-plate. I reread the options: cans, bottles, and paper goods. Then, off to the side, a trash can.

Flashback four years. Burton and I enjoy two weeks of honeymoon bliss on the islands of Maui and Kauai. But in a land covered in pineapple plants and fine arts and crafts, my only souvenirs were empty cans and water bottles, spilling out of my suitcase and carry-on. (Well, there was also that new ring on Burton's hand--not the one he got at the wedding--and my insurance company's number on speed-dial, but that's another story.)

Burton stood beside me last night and watched me survey the options, still gripping the saucer-plate with its clearly visible recyclable number on the back. "You're going to bring that home, aren't you?" It was pouring rain. We had bags and umbrellas and jackets to fumble with. But obviously, yes, I did.