Is life trash?

I eat a lot of yogurt. Yes, calcium deficiency, threat of osteoporosis, in short. And then a plain Greek, it’s super good, almost sensual (I’m talking about a yogurt eh, anyway), again in short.

Obviously, I raised an eyebrow when I saw the word “yogurt” in an article about waste. The Federal Council is strengthening the rules on the recycling of plastic packaging, making the sorting of yogurt pots “increasingly central” and soon compulsory on a large scale via measures targeting distributors like Coop and Migros. If I understand correctly, in 2032, pots of yogurt, packets of gummy candies and cartons of milk, which generally end up in the trash, will have to be taken back by large distributors. This will involve additional collection points.

So I’m all for it. Fortunately, the days of the 70s are over, when we only had one trash can for everything and then threw it into what was called a rubbish bin or a garbage chute located on the floor, and from which flowed the monstrous odors of all the decomposing waste of the building, and incidentally the hordes of cockroaches for whom this system was both an all-inclusive hotel and an open bar. I think I’m quite Swiss on this one, waste management is our DNA, it’s in our identity, as we love order, cleanliness and social control, garbage allows us to express ourselves fully. Long live bag taxes, compulsive sorting and complicated regulations.

At home, I have a bin for household waste, one for compost, a bag for PET, one for glass, one for aluminum (I already collect the aluminum parts of medicine packs and the packaging of mini Easter eggs, which is a pleasure, but I don’t have the courage to have a separate compartment for coffee capsules, which are also made of aluminum) and a small one for batteries. From time to time, old clothes, hazardous waste such as paint, oil and other miscellaneous items are added, not to mention obsolete electronic devices and bulky items. So if you live like me in a modern apartment where the kitchen is part of the “living room” (funny, there is no such thing as “dying room”), you live in a sorting center and you receive your guests in a recycling center. I once stashed trash cans in my bedroom when I had guests over.

In addition, you must have completed EPFL or the Excel World Championship (it exists!) for collection: in my town, compost is on Friday, paper on Wednesday, glass on the 4th Thursday of the month, bulky items on the 1st and 3rd Thursday of the month, household waste on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, aluminum, batteries and PET at the collection point, the rest at the ESREC (space recovery) open from 1 p.m. to 7 p.m. on the other side of town and you need a QR code to enter now; it’s a full-time job.

So if you have to bring the yogurt pots back to the store, you’ll have to take time off. But we’re going to do it, my word.

It’s so integrated and Pavlovian in our country that when I met a gentleman in Paris who lives in a neighborhood where we don’t sort waste, I almost refused the obstacle. And today, when I see him throw a glass bottle into the household waste bin, every time my pacemaker skips a beat. I remember a TSR report from the 80s, a gentleman admitted that he washed his car more often than he made love… and I think that we actually spend more time on waste than on bringing bodies together. At home, we’re not the prettiest for dancing, but we have the trash to take out. Haha.

So ok, I’m willing to accept the microgesture if there are also macro-efforts (sigh), I’m willing to create another yogurt bag in 2032, I’ll be retired, I’ll have time; but I sincerely hope that all this chenit does not end up mixed up at the end in the same incineration tank. Because that would be frankly disgusting.