The garbage men of the apocalypse

I love Thursdays in the leafy suburbs. Early (like, 9am) (I love working from home), the recyclers and the garbage guys come down the hill in their trucks. I love the apocalyptic whirring and crunching that heralds their arrival. I love the feeling of relief as my detritus--outdated prescriptions, doodles, fevered tallying of taxes, magazines that did not bring me the lasting happiness and immediate shedding of 5 pounds that I'd been promised, coupons for crappy fast food, the latest Child Safe fear mongering classes, failed art experiments (the day the decoupage died was particularly wonderful)--sails off down the street to its new life as a community newsletter or confetti for the wedding of people long separated by circumstance or, perhaps, the scratch pad belonging to the world's most brilliant writer. The guys riding the back of the trucks must wonder about me, standing in my blue starry pajamas, smiling beatifically upon them from the living room as they swoop like seraphim for the trash bags. Desperate housewife? Cougar on the poorly coifed prowl? Recent escapee from the sanatarium? Staunch believer in second chances.