This weekend, I needed to pick up some ingredients for dinner. I walked to the store because Christopher had the car—not because I thought of reducing carbon emissions. And I took my own shopping bag because I wanted a strap wide enough to carry on my shoulder—not because I was necessarily thinking of saving sea turtles from plastic shopping bags. It all seemed perfectly logical.
But when I whipped out my bag at the checkout counter, the person behind me in line chuckled and the cashier gave me a look—a look that said she wanted to call me a hippie. Considering some of the additional evidence against me, I can see how one might come to that conclusion:
I once attempted to create my own recipe for flax-seed cookies.
I really like vegan gummy bears.
I swear by my Birkenstock sandals.
I had never really thought of myself before as the tree-hugging type. But walking home on Saturday night—toting wheat flour and milk in my eco-friendly bag—I realized I just might be a hippie after all.