Everywhere I go, I’m hearing about Fifty Shades of Grey, the erotic novel by E L James. The book and its sequels have been at the top of the New York Times and Amazon bestseller lists for weeks. Women everywhere are lusting after the fictional Christian Grey. I hear about him at the supermarket, the pediatrician’s office, and of course on the Internet. This book trilogy is heating up an already hot summer.
The object of my affection is much more real, but most women would consider him considerably less exciting. That won’t stop me from swooning every time I see him. He’s the sleek, sexy, powerful Dyson vacuum.
I know you probably think it’s lame for me to have such strong feelings about a household appliance, but hear me out. I have a husband, two young sons, and two dogs, one of whom sheds a pound of hair every time she exhales. My cheap vacuum just can’t keep up. I clog it up with cracker crumbs and dog hair after five minutes of vacuuming. The whole process is tiring and frustrating, and it makes me long for a fancy vacuum powerful enough to suck my face off.
So why don’t I have my very own Dyson? Well, I don’t have an extra $500 lying around, and if I did I would probably have to use it for something boring, like paying bills. I lobbied hard to get a Dyson under the tree last year, but my husband wasn’t having it: “You hardly ever use the vacuum we have. I’m not spending $500 on a new one.” I promised I would use the Dyson every single day and twice on Sundays if he would just pretty pleeeeease buy it for me. Apparently I was not very convincing, because that was six months ago and I am still Dyson-less.
I hit a low point in my non-relationship with the vacuum in question a few weeks ago. I went to visit my mom … and she had bought a Dyson. MY MOM. BOUGHT. A DYSON. I felt like I was back in high school and my mom was dating my crush. The woman has no carpet, no children, and two tiny, non-shedding dogs. She doesn’t need a Dyson. I need a Dyson. It’s not fair!
I continue to admire my main man from afar, gazing wistfully as I pass down his aisle in Walmart. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but one day, the fancy $500 vacuum will be mine. Until then, I wait, I hope, and a little piece of me dies every time the dog drags her butt across the ground.
Ladies, you can keep Christian Grey. He may be sexy, but I doubt he can sweep up a smashed graham cracker like my man can. He may have sex toys, but he doesn’t have a pet hair attachment.
I love you, Dyson. I’ll see you in my dreams.
No, Dyson did not sponsor this post in any way. I just happen to have a deep and possibly unhealthy obsession with a vacuum cleaner. Shut up.