My Precious Shredder

Who knew that shredding would turn me into Gollum from "Lord of the Rings"?

My filing cabinet is overflowing with bank and credit card statements I've been accumulating since 1994 – so I bought a cheap shredder to make a clean start. As soon as I had identified the first batch of shreddable material, I plugged it in and started letting the paper fly. The sound of its jaws ripping the paper into tiny bits was deafening, but I felt a kind of obsessive glee over the destruction. Matt, who was watching a nature show, gave me a death look. (Really it sounds like an industrial sized blender making mixed drinks out of granite.) I did a few more shreds until Matt yelled, "I'm watching something. Can't you shred another time?" I was disappointed, but he was right.

Over the next few days the shredder seemed to call to me like the ring calling to Gollum. I'd slink by thinking of it as my preciousssss shredder, wanting so badly to go to it. By Sunday morning, I'd accumulated a big pile that needed to be shredded. Though it was only 8:30 a.m., while Matt showered (poor guy had to work) I put on some coffee and cinnamon toast for him. Behind me, the shredder seemed to call out! I felt an overwhelming need to shred. I thought, 'I'll just do five pieces.' But when I'd done five, I wanted to do five more, then five more. After a few minutes, Matt rounded the corner into the kitchen, a horrified look on his face, and shouted over the growling machine, "Marla!" Immediately, the trace was broken and I rocked back on my heels away from the shredder, dazed. "It's too early," Matt said. "People are sleeping." I hung my head, ashamed, then asked: "What time is an acceptable shredding hour?" He said maybe 10. I managed to hold off until 11 -- then shredded the shit out of everything.