Another Christmas, another disappointment. For the gazillionth year in a row, my husband didn’t give me the one gift I’ve been hoping for – a dumpster.
Dumpsters are not generally admired by environmentalists – the ease with which they allow you to dispose of stuff discourages a careful sorting-out of recyclables. Still, green or not, I love the wholesale housecleaning a dumpster makes possible. I have been coveting a dumpster for ages now, ever since we had one during a long-ago construction project (a girl never really gets over her first bulk-waste disposal unit). I have spent many years pathetically trying to recreate the giddy high I got from that dumpster – the incomparable rush that comes from making decades worth of household junk quickly disappear.
Just thinking about this makes me smile dreamily to myself. I imagine floating from room to room, systematically throwing out the accumulated debris of family life. McDonald’s happy meal toys? Gone! That sad pile of semi-deflated soccer balls? Out! In my head I am humming a happy little song as lanyards and flash cards and countless broken swim goggles are hoisted into the pit, followed by the instruction booklet for a coffeemaker I no longer own.
The way I see it, a dumpster is suburban shorthand for a brand-new start. It signals to the world that some lucky woman is getting a second chance to live a sleek, uncluttered life. Why shouldn’t it be me?
There is a remote and wildly optimistic part of my brain that still thinks it’s possible for me to live a life of austere and Zen-like simplicity. I imagine this existence playing out in serene white rooms with crisp, linear furniture and long stretches of empty counter space. There are no precarious piles of junk mail, no gnarly tufts of dog hair wafting by. I have somehow convinced myself that living in a stark and streamlined place will sweep all the gunk and folderol out of my head, leaving my thoughts as pure and sparkling as my surroundings. Which is why I keep trying – even without my own private garbage bin – to purge my house on a semi-regular basis.
This, I can assure you, does not make me popular at home, where my family suspects (although they can’t yet prove) that I throw out their stuff when they aren’t looking. To their faces I profess an earnest, if begrudging, respect for their possessions, but once they leave the house, I rub my hands together and cackle in demented, witch-like glee as I dispose of their long-forgotten treasures.
Of course “treasure” is a very subjective word, and one that my family throws around way too liberally for my taste. My husband thought his 1983 Atari video game system was a priceless artifact of his past, but to me it was merely trash; I tossed it out, along with some Barbie coloring books and a musty assortment of soccer cleats.
When my family asks where their stuff has gone, I shrug my shoulders while trying to look innocent and ever-so-slightly distracted. This is a multi-purpose expression I have perfected over time; it is equally effective when my daughter asks what has happened to her Halloween candy.
This does not reflect well on me, I know – clearly I have issues with honesty, not to mention respecting other people’s property. But I am powerless to stop – throwing things out has become a hobby, a vocation, and quite possibly, a mild addiction. And having a dumpster would elevate this pastime into something of an art form. It would certainly make it a hell of a lot easier.
It’s too bad my husband didn’t come through for Christmas. Luckily, Valentine’s Day is right around the corner.
Editor’s Note: Susan Goldberg is a slightly lapsed treehugger. Although known to overuse paper products, she has the best of intentions – and a really small SUV. Catch her column, The Goldberg Variations, each week here at EcoSalon.
Image: shedboy