To hoard, perchance to shred

Having only a cursory understanding of what is undoubtedly a complex and harrowing disorder, and having only seen maybe 5 minutes of the eponymous program, I will nevertheless assert that hoarding, in its early stages, begins with an unwillingness or inability to process incoming mail.  And perhaps, as a close second, the overestimation of the "actual" value of free tote bags.

Our most recent ordeal, and most issues with sorting and discarding mail, began with a broken shredder.  Like most people, the fact that we couldn't remember where or when we purchased our shredder, or more importantly, how much it cost, made buying a new one difficult.  I knew that our current model wasn't powerful enough.  I knew this because the sound of it shredding made me think of Ving Rhames cursing through a ball gag.  And having no idea what one should cost and for what amount of power or how that power is measured, i just didn't buy one.  That was the start of the darkness.

Three stacks of mail.  Unread, read but unprocessed, and shred-worthy.  First the shreddable pile grew.  And grew.  It grew because "we" (everyone knows i mean only my wife, right?) didn't want to just throw out sensitive mail items with our personal information on it.  If you have a working shredder and just take for granted why a solicitation to join Curves Gym for Women requires shredding, i will be happy to explain.  It contains personal information.  Like your address.  Which is impossible to obtain, apparently, by any means other than sorting through coffee grounds, eggshells, slimy cottonballs and used dental floss in the hopes of discovery.  I knew the shredding pile was large when toppling became a concern.  At which point a line was crossed (by me, alone) that is crossed once by all who eventual find themselves sobbing through a newspaper-narrowed hallway towards a TLC camera crew, lamenting the loss of their "valuables:" I put the mail that must be saved in a bag.  For saving.  Until later.  Oh god.

Stacks of unread magazines can also be a point of concern.  Moments of tension periodically (pun intended) arise in our home when my wife confronts me about putting a mixed stack of Health/Fitness/Shape/Woman/Home/Garden/Woman'sShape/GardenFitness/HomeHealth/ShapeHealth/Woman'sGarden/FitnessHome/ShapelyWoman'sGarden into the pile of newspapers for recycling.  Not because i'm mixing glossy print with newspaper (shut up, all of you; it goes in one truck anyway). Rather, she was bothered because 1) she hasn't read them yet (pffft) and 2) she hasn't removed the address part with our name and our "secret codes."  Which, she imagines is used only as a shortcut by identity thievery adepts to easily extract personal information.

The trouble with this logic aside from bagged mail, is the same as with hitchhiking as a successful path for a career in murder: the victim pool has evolved.  Its a cold, lonely, unsatisfied murderer that stalks our  nation's highways.  Likewise, potential identity thieves are not be-masked, striped-shirted prowlers rooting through our bagged garbage with a flashlight clenched in their teeth.  Nor are they waist-deep in a garbage barge, occasionally turning a grimy, trash slicked face skyward, thrilled at the discovery of my wife's discarded Frontgate catalog.

In summary, fix your shredder.  Or buy a new one.  And read your magazines quickly.