I love vacuuming. The satisfying sound of dirt being sucked right up out of my carpets, whisked away into a plastic prison to await execution by dumpster, makes my heart pound with excitement. Sometimes, when the floors aren't very dirty, I eat a sleeve of crackers and sweep the crumbs off the table right onto the floor, just to ensure I get to hear my faithful Hoover slurp them up. Vacuuming under the desk in my son's room is especially thrilling - a virtual carpet of Doritos and Sun Chips top the actual carpet in a cheesy topping of crunchy delights. I mow over that crispy little snack graveyard with a gusto that borders on hysteria.
The progression of my illness, however, has made vacuuming a little difficult. By "a little difficult", I mean it now requires superhuman strength, agility, maneuverability, and patience, none of which I possess. Every time I go in the coat closet to get my coat, shoes, or Swiffer Sweeper (which I think the vacuum cleaner harbors secret resentment toward), there it is, staring at me, egging me on, cajoling me into a wrestling match. I named it Krull, because it just seems like a good name for something made of plastic and metal and designed to try to kill me. Most days I resist vacuuming, but when a roll down the carpeted hallways sounds like a truck driving down a gravel road, I have to give in and enter the ring.
I have my wrestling costume - a Carolina sweatshirt, Chicago Bears sweatpants, and electric blue sneakers. If the beast decides to suck me up one day, I will be readily identifiable by those brightly colored shoes. I know when I enter the ring with Krull I will be sweating, so it seemed fitting to wear a sweat-friendly costume. Matches with Krull can be dangerous, and often result in serious injuries – bruises, scrapes, and the occasional tears. Sometimes, Bandaids and antibiotic ointment are required to treat the injuries. These are dark times.
Round one begins when I open the door to the closet. I stare at Krull, let it know I am not afraid by squinting at it menacingly. Krull just sits there in its dark corner, unfazed by my posturing. I gather up my courage and roll into the closet. I get a mild case of whiplash when my wheels hit the pile of shoes on the floor, jerking my head forward violently. I wince but quickly twist my expression around into a scowl, not wanting Krull to believe I am weak. I curse the shoes, but look at Krull as I do it, so the stoic machine knows I won’t tolerate any nonsense. I lean forward, grab its handle to give it a hearty tug, and realize too late that I forgot to engage the brakes on my chair. I fly forward and land face-first on the pile of shoes.
Round one winner - Krull.
Round two – back in my chair, pride dusted off, wrestling costume straightened. I glare at Krull and declare “You’re going down!” in a low, gritty voice. Krull just sits there. I grab its handle, lock my brakes, and give it a hearty yank. Freed from its closet prison, Krull stands petulantly in my hallway. I sneer at it, unwind the cord, and look for an electrical outlet. My condo is laid out with a pass-through kitchen, which means that I must choose the outlet very carefully. The wrong selection could result in me becoming entangled in an electrical cord noose for days before anyone discovered me. I select one on the wall just outside the kitchen. I roll over to Krull, lower the handle, place it between my thighs, and proceed to roll from the hallway into the kitchen. Krull suddenly veers left and hits the doorframe, and my lady parts scream as the handle slams into them. I drop the handle, roll to the freezer, and pull out a bag of frozen peas to sit on.
Round 2 winner – Krull.
Round three is forfeited when I roll over the cord and Krull chews a hole in it. Pink duct tape applied to cord injury. Fresh bag of frozen corn placed under my still-smarting nether regions.
Round three winner – Krull by forfeit.
Round four – I drink a glass of wine. I have succeeded in vacuuming a nine-square-inch area of my kitchen. I glance at the broom standing in the corner and decide that the kitchen was its domain. Slowly, ever so slowly, I roll into the living room, pushing Krull ahead of me with its handle resting between my thighs, a full can of Diet Coke strategically placed between it and my tender areas. I shift uncomfortably in my seat to reposition the bag of frozen corn, and wonder if I should move to a condo with hardwood floors so I could send Krull to the crusher. I reach down and press the power button, and Krull roars to life. I push the handle forward, realize too late I forgot to engage my brakes again as I move backward, and I drop the handle. Cursing angrily, I lean down to grab the handle as Krull’s self-propulsion continues to pull him forward. I lose my balance as I attempt to grasp the handle, and slip from my seat, my hoo hoo hitting the foot plate, breaking my fall. My scream may have been heard in New Jersey. I roll to the kitchen for a bag of frozen green beans and stuff it inside my sweatpants.
Round four winner – Krull.
Round five – I drink a glass of wine and roll around the vacuum cleaner, sizing him up. The bastard just stands there staring back at me. I finally grab the handle and hit the power button with an angry thumb. Krull lurches forward and sucks up the edge of the area rug.
Round five winner – Krull.
Round six – I drink a glass of wine. I stare at Krull. He stares back. That son of a bitch is taunting me! I pull the rug out of Krull’s teeth and hit the power button. Krull chokes on a paper clip necklace.
Round six winner – Draw.
Round seven – I drink a glass of wine and stare at him. He stares back. Did that asshole just WINK at me!?? I put the cord between my teeth and roll to plug it into another outlet. I roll over it by accident and have to check my teeth in the bathroom mirror to make sure none were yanked out when the wheels jerked the cord out of my mouth.
Round seven winner – Krull.
I pour a glass of wine, roll down the hall, enter my bedroom, close the door, and climb into bed with my frozen vegetable soup stuffed in my pants.
Before drifting into a wine-induced coma, I mentally add “lady part injuries” to the list of vacuuming hazards, and vow to hire a housekeeper first thing in the morning.
