Tag-less in Surrey

I’m a Canadian, through and through. I say “sorry” when someone bumps into me or steps on my foot. I wait for the little lighted man to appear before I step into a crosswalk, even if there isn’t a car in sight. I say “you’re welcome” in response to a thank you. And I follow a queue line even if there isn’t a queue. But, I have recently taken a step out of my Canadian box and blatantly committed a crime.

I cut the “do not remove” tag off a pillow I received as a gift the other day. Yup, I did it! I read the tag, picked up my scissors and snipped. I felt like a real bad ass. I was home alone, but I still checked over my shoulder to ensure nobody witnessed my crime.

The Tag Police didn’t storm my front door. Sirens didn’t wail down the street. The giant fickle finger of fate didn’t descend from the clouds and nail me to the kitchen floor. I gazed at my newly de-tagged pillow, it looked beautifully unencumbered.

I felt liberated and was tempted to rush through the house cutting tags off of everything I could find. How many nights had I awoken with the tag on my comforter tickling my face? How many tags had disintegrated in the washing machine or melted and shriveled into a crunchy mass in the dryer? All for the sake of a little courage and a pair of scissors.

I felt a little sorry for my babies, now grown, who had to play with their tagged stuffies. I wondered if they rebelled when they had babies of their own.  I was tempted to call my daughter and ask her how she deals with tags at her house. Then it occurred to me she would become an accomplice to my crime if I made my confession to her. I made a mental note to check the stuffies in my granddaughters’ rooms next time I dropped by. If they were all sporting worn tags it would indicate my daughter had grown up to be a law abiding Canadian. If not, then she was walking the fine line between compliance and rebellion with me. We’d be covert comrades in arms.

I secretly hoped my granddaughters’ stuffies were tag less – I could smell a revolution in the wind. What if we could convince a few others to snip their tags, and they, in turn, convinced a few more. Soon Canadians from coast to coast to coast would be brandishing scissors and snipping at will. Tags would be falling like autumn leaves.

But I’m getting ahead of myself here – first things first. I have to decide what to do with the evidence littering my kitchen counter. Given the tags were supposed to stay attached to the pillow there is no clear indication that they are recyclable. Which bin should I toss them into? Are they safe to flush? So many things to consider… so much stress. Perhaps crime really doesn’t pay.