Putting the Fix on Our Disposable Culture

by Sharon Kayne

The other day my husband looked down at my feet and said, “You need new slippers.” Even though I knew what he was referring to—the two holes in my slippers over my big toes—I also looked down at my own feet. Then I said, “No, I don’t.”

Now, these were not large holes, and my big toes were not projecting out of my slippers like a Lil’ Abner cartoon character. But, indeed, he was right: my slippers were holey. That doesn’t mean, I argued with him, that I need new slippers. Sure, new slippers might be nice. And acquiring them wouldn’t even be all that much trouble. I could order them online and have them delivered to my house. Then, I could throw my holey slippers in the trash, which the city would haul away—meaning even the disposal of my old slippers wouldn’t be all that much trouble.

Still, I balked. I pointed out to my husband that the rubber soles of my old slippers are in fine shape. They still keep my feet warm and clean. The fabric uppers also do the job they were designed to do, and they still look pretty good, holes notwithstanding. I told him I didn’t think two small holes were enough to condemn my slippers to eons in the landfill—where they will never degrade into anything even remotely organic or reusable in nature. Oddly enough, my husband, who worries about the havoc humanity is causing to the planet more than I do, remained firm. So, I suggested a compromise—one that would ameliorate his concern about the appearance of my slippers while keeping them out of the landfill for at least another couple of years. I offered to patch them.

He balked at that idea until I promised I’d make the patches heart-shaped, so they’d look less like patches and more like decoration. He thought that would be alright. So I dug some felt out of my fabric stash, cut little hearts, and sat down to embroider the things on (using a blanket stitch, in case you were wondering). Then I threw the slippers into the wash (which, admittedly I should have thought to do before I held them so close to my face), and they came out looking fabulous. So fabulous, I took a picture.

The thing is, people just don’t do enough patching and fixing anymore. Almost everything we buy is designed to be disposable—and that really bothers me. We live on a finite planet with not only finite resources, but also a finite amount of space for discarding stuff we can’t be bothered to fix. I can just imagine, one day in the distant future, alien archeologists will be excavating an old landfill and what they unearth will not make humanity look good. “It’s no wonder this poor species died off,” one alien would say to the other, as he holds up a pair of still-useable slippers that were marred by just two small holes. “They did not have the technology to fix the small problem with these leisure foot coverings, opting instead to bury them with useless rubbish.”

The other alien would shake his head knowingly and say, “So sad. They were so technologically backward, it’s no surprise they could not handle the climactic destruction they brought on themselves with their wanton use of this planet’s finite resources.” The other alien would sigh, then they would make notes in their electronic notepads, climb back into their spaceship and fly away—but not before posting an intergalactic sign warning others to stay away from what is now a toxic trash heap. “And it had been such a pretty planet, too,” they’d say.

Okay, I know that keeping one stinking pair of slippers out of the landfill is not going to save the planet. But, when it comes to planet-saving, I don’t have lots of opportunities. Really, what I do as a consumer is one of my best weapons in the fight to save the planet. If I could fix the climate crisis with embroidery and felt, I’d do it. But I can’t, so I’ll do the next best thing and fix my poor slippers.

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Buy my historical romances, This Restless Sea, The Green Silk Gown, and Variations on a Romance, at Amazon.