And Another Thing… A Column

A variety of tupperware containers with soup inside on a white table

Stashed between the stove and bottles of homemade cleaning solution, there exists a drawer in my house that acts as an abyss of sorts, where plastic goes to die and my sanity proves to deteriorate—it’s the dreaded tupperware drawer. 

I’m not one to complain about ubiquitous storage; in fact, I’m grateful for containers to store my half-eaten dinners and neglected lunches. Sure, my roommates and I have a glorified glass tupperware drawer, in which our glass containers are stacked neatly in a single file, but it’s the plastic tupperware that digs at my sanity, compromising my mental health.  

Let me set the stage: it’s a beautiful Sunday morning. The dishwasher has just finished its drying cycle—proving itself a useful innovation of the 21st century—and the plastic plates, bowls, and cups await my gentle touch and kind demeanor. The cups stack perfectly atop each other in the cupboard—green cup atop pink atop blue—and the plates slide into place like a well-mannered suitor in my DMs. The glass containers—my favorite—are tucked into their drawer—mommy’s perfect little angels. But it’s when I get to the top rack of the dishwasher that I begin to lose patience: it’s where the plastic tupperware sits, gathering stray droplets of dishwater, straining my patience. I place a swift hand on the first rectangular plastic container—bent out of shape because it proved puny against the dishwasher’s heat settings—and immediately enter the splash zone. The superfluous crevices of this plastic “invention” catch every ounce of water from the Normal Cycle.  

Opening the plastic tupperware drawer, I enter my own personal hell. My three roommates do not respect this drawer—maybe because I don’t either—but still, the plastic tupperware drawer is disorganized to say the least. In my household, I strive for decorum but this drawer (and my roommates) do not share my passion. We have twenty plastic lids and about seven plastic containers. And yes, of the twenty flimsy lids, there are no matching tops for our seven plastic containers. I really don’t understand how we’ve accumulated so much plastic—we prefer glass containers, we always have! But I would be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge my role in this plastic fiasco: I am ashamed to admit I purchased the seven containers that now have no lid and no purpose. I am the plastic malefactor; I am the reason for my own suffering. 

Okay, that sounds bad. But I’m trying to change my ways! I no longer throw the containers into the drawer and close it whilst running away, laughing diabolically; I’m organizing the drawer, learning to live with the pain instead of in spite of it. But I don’t know how much more I can take. My three (lovely) roommates have kidnapped the lids of my shameful plastic containers, murdered the other 13 containers, and left the drawer in disarray. Once, as I was opening the drawer, I audibly gasped at the crime scene left behind, pulling out my phone to dial DISH-1-1. I’m sick of this drawer and everything it stands for! 

So what am I going to do about this? I think I’ll start by holding a memorial service for the 13 containers lost and seven lids buried. A candlelight vigil, maybe. Then, I’m going to throw those suckers in the trash and buy more glass containers, replacing the dreaded, always somehow moist, and disorganized plastic tupperware drawer with the discipline and vigor of glass containers. Freedom from plastic has never tasted so sweet. 

And another thing, plastic tupperware is, like, so 1960s. As the Black Eyed Peas once said, “You so 2000 and late.” Don’t be so 2000 and late; keep up with the times—terminate the plastic tupperware drawer.