THE SHREDDER INTERVENTION

I'm sure this has happened to you.

Someone you care about, deeply, is planning to do something foolish, something you're certain he or she will bitterly regret for years. You wonder if you should intercede. But you decide no, it's their life.

 

In my case, the person is my husband, and the crisis began a few weeks ago. That's when he told me he needed a shredder.

 

My heart began pounding. "A what?"

 

"A shredder.  You know, for shredding paper."

 

"I know what a shredder is. What I don't know is why you need one."

 

He looked at me patiently. "I told you before. I need to get rid of all those old client files when I move out of my office." He put on his Serious Professional Voice. "For reasons of privacy."

 

"How many files do you have?"

 

He paused, considering. "Maybe 40 years' worth."

 

Now, this shouldn't have surprised me. Some other time I'll tell you about the alarming state of our basement, where he has stored not only thousands of magazines, but also dozens of warped LPs and hundreds of hermetically sealed bags of Happy Meal toys.  

 

I tried to reason with him. "There are places that will do shredding for you, you know.”

And that's when he got that look, the one you see on the face of a three-year-old who is determined to pour his own milk into the cereal bowl.

 

"I wanna do it myself."

 

Having once read an article about this behavior (granted, I read it when my kids were 3 and 7), I knew I needed to "respect his need for autonomy." So I shut up. Not long afterwards, he returned from Office Depot, proudly carrying the Ativa® 14-Sheet Super Micro-Cut Shredder. He said he chose it because it was "designed for maximum security." Personally, I think he was excited by the LED light that glows during the shredding process.

 

Not long afterward, the noises started.

 

Z-Z-Z-r-r-r-p     Z-Z-Z-r-r-r-p    Z-Z-Z-r-r-p    Z-Z-Z-r-r-r-p

 

I crept into his den and found him sitting on a chair, walled in by boxes of client files and feeding his hungry machine. The shred bin was already filled with millions of pieces of confetti. Pieces that I knew were destined to blanket the carpet when he tried to empty the bin.

 

He pointed proudly at the confetti. "Look what I did!"

 

I tried to make enthusiastic noises in an attempt to be supportive. But I couldn't help myself. "You realize you could be shredding for the rest of your natural life, right?"

 

He only smiled. "It's actually kind of fun. Like, I'm finding the names of my very first patients." He paused. "I think they're all dead."

 

So this is our life. Day after day, night after night, he sits in his den and shreds. I hide in the family room, watching Netflix with the volume turned up, desperately attempting to block out the hideous sounds of  Z-Z-Z-r-r-r-p    Z-Z-Z-r-r-r-p    Z-Z-Z-r-r-r-p. 

At one point, I found a Groupon for the Paper Tiger, a place that would shred 300 pounds of paper for $16.95. My husband muttered only, "Don't talk to me."

Then he shredded it.

 

I finally accepted this new normal, and I watched in relief as the number of boxes dwindled. And then...then he told me that there were dozens more in the storage shed.

I may have to kill him.