For years my husband would tell me certain things probably couldn’t be recycled, and my response, as I stubbornly smushed said things into the overstuffed blue bin, would be, ‘it can’t hurt to try.’ My thinking was that if the pizza box really was too greasy, they’d simply sort it out. No harm done. I’ve since reformed my ways, but it was only last week that I learned there’s an actual term for this blindly hopeful penchant for reuse:
Confessions of a wishcycler
Confessions of a wishcycler
Confessions of a wishcycler
For years my husband would tell me certain things probably couldn’t be recycled, and my response, as I stubbornly smushed said things into the overstuffed blue bin, would be, ‘it can’t hurt to try.’ My thinking was that if the pizza box really was too greasy, they’d simply sort it out. No harm done. I’ve since reformed my ways, but it was only last week that I learned there’s an actual term for this blindly hopeful penchant for reuse: