Act One
Today I am going to vacuum the house. It will be rewarding and will create a sense of achievement. I would like to do something small for the people who care for me on the daily. I will pop on a podcast and really immerse myself in the task. It will be an exercise in mindfulness. I will be distracted from my health for at least forty five minutes. Those shag rugs need a good going over thanks to our dog and that will get my heart rate up just enough to tip me into the medically recommended aerobic state to perfectly combat colorectal cancer proliferation.
Act Two
How the hell does the bag thingy attach to the inside of the drum? Hmm…this is trickier than I thought. Wait. Nope. Got it. Yep. Nailed it. Right. Power switch…is…quite low to the ground. No worries. I’ve got this. Ok. Start in the bathroom…least resistance. I’ll just stand here for a moment and get my breath…ok. How the hell does body hair get inside and behind the rolls of toilet paper?! (Drags everything out of the bathroom to ensure full floor coverage). Grunting. Heaving. Sighing. This is room one and I am basically dead. Is it just me or do pull along vacuum cleaners have the exact same propensity for getting stuck in a corner as Vegemite toast has for landing spread side down on the floor? Lots of yanking. Low level swearing. Gets. It. Done.
Right. Next. Parents room. The least they deserve is a vacc’d floor on return from the holiday house. Chuffed with self at satisfying vacuum lines created by my labour. “Look at this perfectly mown carpet with its parallel lines of detailed attention! Just something I threw into the morning routine because I’m a selfless, functioning human…” Fuck. The cord isn’t long enough to get around the other side of the bed without unplugging it from the low power switch out in the corridor which is about four metres away and may as well be a trek to base camp in Kathmandu. Fuckity fuck. Well…you can’t really see the dirty patch from the door because of the bed. It’ll be right. Ian barely walks over there anyway. Just into bed every night. It’ll be dark etc.
Act Three
Look. I know I’m only two rooms into this exercise but if I break it up into chunks throughout the day I’ve totally got this. I drag the vacuum back to our bedroom and the rate and intensity of swearing increases as the rolling barrel ploughs into every wall and corner on the way. Finally make it to the bedroom where the hose and its handle get stuck around the leg of a chair because I am now completely out of breath and puffing on hands and knees.
“FAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!! FUCK THIS SHIT!!!!!!!” I yell at the vacuum cleaner. I dramatically pull myself into standing and then with the flair of a losing contestant on RuPaul’s Drag Race in the final week elimination, I quite literally throw myself face down onto the bed. I am a six foot two, forty-seven year old arsehole having an actual, two year old, supermarket aisle, horizontal, hysterical tantrum (except I choose a softer surface because…experience).
Snot and tears stream from my face as Mel runs into the room thinking that I have been seriously injured. I incoherently garble a self-pitying tirade which, could be briefly summarised by, “Poor Me. My Life is Very Hard and Nobody Understands”. I wail at one point that the vacuuming incident is a mere metaphor for my life with cancer and my dwindling independence. I’m not sure Mel stays for the whole thing because at one point she hands me a tissue and I’m pretty sure I had accidentally vacuumed them all out of the box a few minutes earlier. She even, quite cruelly, I maintain, mentions that she had noticed I’d “missed a few bits”.
Awkward and extended pause.
Now comes the laughter. The giggling at how I have created a theatrical event out of a household chore and the ridiculousness of my attempt to draw parallels between the entirety of my current life challenges and vacuuming the carpet. The amusement that I thought I was EVER going to be able to vacuum the house and the knowledge that EVERYONE ELSE already knew where this was headed.
Mel finishes the vacuuming. I dust half the house and throw out some old receipts. Magro makes us all a coffee. The End.
So I best not ask you to come and vacuum for me then????😍
Too funny! At least you had a go, 10/10 for effort. I hate vacuuming for all the exact same reasons. I might try a temper tantrum next time and see if help will come . . . but I’m thinking not.
Kristie, I don’ t cope with the vacuuming either….particularly with the barrel models! Greg now copes with that chore but let me say we now have a wonderful new light upright model….so easy…..but Greg still retains this chore! 🥰
Bloody hell Christie!
I joined this bloody vacuum cleaning club in recent times when I decided, in my retirement with often nothing better to do, that I could do a better job than the cleaners. I am supposed to vacuum every 2 weeks (that is the contract I have with Silke) and I have real difficulty having to face the prospect of negotiating all the bloody hazards that you have described so well.
I understand that you have some underlying issues at the moment, but all I can say is; welcome to the vacuum cleaning club!
Maybe your psychologist has some tips that we could use to handle this emotional stress……
Cheers Brian
I hate vacuum cleaning!!! Hate the noise and everything else- and enjoyed your story a lot!!! 😁
( very glad Brian is doing the vacuuming-.. is that really a word???)
I love your vacuuming story (in three acts!) – laughed out loud and can certainly relate! Good on you for giving it a go I reckon! I gave up years ago and opted to outsource! I reckon we have better things to do these days!