For a while, I passed the sushi aisle, feeling put out that I couldn’t eat my favorite, quick meal because I’d “given it up due to the packaging, blah, blah, blah.” Sure, I could still eat it fresh at a restaurant any day, but I just wasn’t so sure the handsome, smiling, Japanese man behind the counter at the commissary would be willing to place the homemade sushi rolls in the empty container I held out. Besides the fact, I’d have to arrive at just the right moment—first thing in the morning when they opened–while he created them, but before he packaged the lovely rolls. I had to time it just right…it seemed like such a pain.
The number on there? Is it number 6? They make it awfully difficult to read, don’t they? And who recycles number 6? No one around here, that’s for sure.
I LOVE sushi. Just looking at the bright, pink strips of salmon limp atop the rice rolls make me jump with happiness. (Sometimes, right there in the store.) It’s a perfect, quick meal for me, especially when my man is out at sea and I dine alone. But that darn packaging! (And no, for all you mamas out there, at this moment in time, I am only eating the CA rolls or the cream cheese ones. )
Did I mention I’m a chicken? What if he laughed and rolled his eyes and said, “NO, you pregnant moron woman.” What if he threw sushi rolls at my face?
But he wants to sell his product, right? Why would he care what it’s packaged in? Worse case scenario, I told myself, I could always learn to make it myself. It can’t be that difficult. I mean, he’s back there rolling them, and he’s smiling. He always looks delighted.
I don’t mind the weird looks, it’s the adamant “no” I’m afraid of.
No, you can’t have it.
No, I won’t sell it to you.
No, I won’t place it in your container you bring with you. Who do you think you are? Do you think you’re special? What are you, from California or something? (Because everyone knows Cali folks are always one step ahead of the game when it comes to the environment.)
Then I would read Stephanie’s posts from Stephanie Gets Rid Of Her Crap Blog (which I just love.) She’s this fearless Canadian who outright asks for what she wants—and usually gets it. She carries her own containers everywhere and asks restaurants to fill er’ up. Not just grocery stores, but restaurants. And I’m not talking left overs after a meal, but “I’m in here to eat lunch today but I don’t have time to eat IN HERE. So, can you put my Chinese food in this container, right now?” Each time she posted about how it worked for her, I gained courage.
Until I checked my courage meter today and the red mark ticked at “full.” Today was the day. I placed my empty containers in my cloth bag and walked right up to the counter playing this over and over in my head, “Step up to the plate, Jenn. Quit being a chicken. Smile. Be kind. And stop being afraid of the resounding “no”, will ya? Stephanie does it. Bea Johnson does it. All you have to do is ask.”
After he inquired what was wrong with his containers, I explained that the town we lived in would not recycle his containers. He smirked and gave me the eye. You know the one. The “Are you kidding me, lady?” eye or the “Seriously?” eye or the “What are you trying to pull?” eye. And then he said, “Well, YEAH, SURE.” !! I had to hold myself back from throwing my arms around him. I couldn’t believe it worked. All I had to do was ASK. Stephanie was right.
Who knew it could be so darn easy? And all this time, I was doing without. No more! Next time, I just have to remember to tell him no fake grass!
What have you attempted that was SUPER SCARY and then you discovered it wasn’t quite as bad as you thought?