"God, I hope so," I replied, turning my head to glance back at him. "Honestly, it just seems like a bit more than I can take."
Sensing my anxiousness, he smiled, nodded and repeated the words I needed to hear again to make me feel relaxed.
"Everyone thinks that at first. They're scared," he said. "But trust me. You will love it. You'll want it all the time..."
"He knows me so well," I thought. "I have such a small threshold for self control."
"God help me," I whispered. "Let's do this, then."
So we parted, this stranger and I, and I returned my gaze back toward my husband and sons who were walking, as per usual, 3,062 steps ahead of me, and proceeded to push my loaded shopping cart through the Home Depot aisles toward the checkout counter.
To purchase a Dyson vacuum cleaner. With it's cyclonic sucking power that was first tested as it yanked the credit card out of my husband's wallet before it ever emerged from the box, and then literally grossed me out when we got it home and gave it a test run on our family room floor.Let me just say that I am, by purely anal and obsessive habits, a neat person. Messes make me a bit crazy. Disorder robs me of calm. So I believed my floors wouldn't be some back alley crack den for dust mites and crap.
Damn you, Dyson, for proving me wrong. I'm humbled by your immense sucking power. My husband vacuumed the family room floor and pulled up a ton of things. First, I was amazed by the wonder of watching my husband actually vacuuming. After that, I was awed by what was being pulled up by the Dyson. Dust no doubt left by the home builders eight years ago. Gold doubloons. The skeletal remains of what may be a small ancient burial ground. A young Cambodian boy we've named Erik.
That mighty is the Dyson.
"Let me at it!" I screamed when it was time to go up to the living room. Then we "ooohed" and "awwed" and "what the hell'ed?" our way through the rest of the house. And the furniture! That my furniture is still standing after that gale force cleaning is nothing short of amazing.
"Why don't you take the boys and go somewhere? I want to be alone with the Dyson," I said to my husband. I had a bathroom floor to tackle.
I never thought I'd get a Dyson (sidenote: I think it's against the law to call a Dyson a "vacuum." I've only heard people refer to it by the brand name itself. We've said "it's time to Dyson the floor"). Not because I thought I was too good for such nice things. Oh, no. I just figured I'd have to return a lot of pop bottles for the five cent deposit money before I'd ever have the chance to buy one, and thus would just leave a pile of ashes from my dead body for my survivors to vacuum (excuse me - Dyson) up after I'd died in my quest.
And we still, technically, can't afford it. I did get a little shaky when we paid for it even though it was on sale and there were other discounts. But the old vacuum was to the point of screaming in pain whenever we turned it on, and now it cowers in the closet when we bring out its replacement. It awaits its eventual destruction.
So he was right, this stranger who enchanted me in the home appliance aisle of Home Depot. I do love it. I do want it all the time. And like him, the next time I'm shopping and see someone eyeing them, I totally intend to take their Dyson virginity, too.
Because they suck so good.