I have a confession to make.
I have hate in my heart.
For years I’ve tried to overcome—to be the better person. I’ve tried ignoring. I’ve tried accepting.
See … me and this machine … we’re in a battle. It's game on.
My emotions are so raw that writing this makes my pulse quicken and my insides tighten. Oh, the ill will I direct its way. The thoughts of its demise I imagine. It's stolen the joy from a household chore I actually like!
I think it knows my contempt and is out to break me. The wretched thing is a beast. It’s cumbersome and clunky. The self-propelling quit long ago and I have to drag it across the carpet. It’s built for someone six inches shorter, so I end up with a backache from stooping. The handle digs into my hands. And the motor roars like a jet taking off.
Just about every cap, cover, filter and extra part has cracked, broken or fallen off. The electric cord has 36 gouges in it from being run over. The housing is littered with paint marks from being run into doorways and furniture—and from falling down the steps several times.
You know what really ticks me off? What keeps me from opening the front door and hurling it into the front yard every time I use it? As much as I loathe admitting this, it vacuums really well. Dirt and dog hair are no match for its suction. My practical side won't let me buy a new one.
That leaves us in a standoff … me and this machine. I keep hoping it will suffer a fatal wound—like electrocution. Yet, it refuses to quit. How many favored appliances have headed to appliance heaven well before their time?! This monster won’t die. Seriously, it could take on a Timex.
So, the hate grows and the battle ensues.
I set my sights on a glimmer of hope in the distance. My birthday, anniversary and Mother’s Day are coming up. The trifecta of gift giving. Oh, how a girl can wish.
Dan … hello? Are you listening?