JANUARY 8, 2025 – (Cont.) Under the mistaken assumption that life was good, I attempted to reconnect the main part of the Dyson with its long wand and floor brush roller. This action, however, ended nirvana abruptly: When I snapped the wand into its docking station on the combination handle/motor/filter/canister, the bottom of the canister unsnapped. The result of this failure was a whole new make-work project within the larger mission of cleaning out the damned vacuum cleaner. Specifically, completely on its own accord, the rather substantial residual dust clinging to the inside of the canister—residue that hadn’t spilled onto the floor at the outset of my adventure over an hour before—now decided to emulate a blizzard all over the decorative pillows that adorn the settee in our sitting room. Moreover, I was powerless to stop the fine dust from slipping away from its initial landing site down onto the settee itself and between the cushions.
Murphy’s law in action—accompanied by a robust expletive.
The cleanup would have to wait until I resolved the mystery of the errant latching mechanism that was supposed to hold the canister bottom in place. For this I would soon learn that neither Tik Tok nor BoobTube had a thing to offer. In fact, they snatched away from me another precious 15 minutes of my life.
As an aside . . . One of many positive side effects of the blood cancer, multiple myeloma—the definitive diagnosis I received on this day three years ago—and the miraculous treatment that I received is my exponentially heightened appreciation for life and its inherent partner, time. In this combination, I’ve discovered, my OCD tendencies thrive. To avoid squandering the rest of my life, I’ve grown compulsive about not squandering time. No waking moment is to be wasted in the swamp of useless thoughts or on the desert of actions that have no purpose.
Granted, often purpose lies below the surface, in which case meaning must be drawn from deeper strata of consciousness or melded from a collection of circumstances. For example, when stuck in the check-out line at the CVS pharmacy of our local Target Super Store, where I pick up my monthly “magical maintenance medication” for the multiple myeloma, I make use of the ostensible down time by reading a NYT article or column on my phone app; OR pondering some challenge associated with a current legal matter; OR considering design enhancements for the latest “gnome home” I’m building for our nine-year-old granddaughter. Likewise, when I’m striding along the sidewalk on my daily power walk and a neighbor approaches from the opposite direction, I gear up for an attitude-boosting exchange of greetings, hope for a full-blown family update, and, for a full trifecta, allow for a substantive 10-minute conversation about any number of broader subjects.
In short, the ultimate anathema for me now is forfeiture of precious time, as for example, in the failed reassembly of a Dyson cordless vacuum cleaner, aggravated by the concomitant need to clean up the !@#$% mess(es) caused by said cleaner—so-called.
If I’d previously been “fit to be tied,” I was now “fit to be confined.” In my expanding psychosis I tried repeatedly to snap the bottom of the canister into place, but this futile effort served no purpose but to remind me of the adage first attributed to Cicero: “Any man can make mistakes, but only an idiot persists in his error.” No matter how hard or how many times I slammed the bottom shut and regardless of how closely I re-examined the lever and catch that were (clearly) designed to secure it, the damn thing wouldn’t stay closed. The moment I jiggled the unit however slightly, the motion triggered the catch and the bottom swung open, as if infused with some devilish contempt for the idiot in the room.
I don’t know what happened next. I have no memory or other retrievable cerebral record of the relevant synapses. All I can tell you is that pursuant to an ethereal process by which cosmic “good” overpowers cosmic “bad,” my brain directed my hands to remove the metal filter cylinder from the center of the plastic canister before attempting to snap the bottom shut and then and only then, re-inserting said metal filter and closing the bottom. Voila: it all came down to sequencing.
I immediately removed and disposed of the nasty large Post-It note I’d earlier slapped onto the screen of my wife’s office desktop computer[1]. Next, I used the Dyson to clean up the remains of the unexpected dust storm that minutes before had blanketed the pillows and settee. Upon completion of this unscheduled task, I realized that to restore my mental health I needed to postpone the original “deep cleaning mission” that had led me to a face-to-face encounter with Dante. If the cordless Dyson was now properly clean and reassembled, I required some “alone time” on the local ski hill. Accordingly, I donned my ski garb, grabbed my skis and poles and hiked to “Little Switzerland.” There in the bracing cold far from the flames of hell, I skate-skied to the summit of “St. Moritz.” The view was magnificent.
After all that had transpired, skiing was the smartest thing for a dummy to do.
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© 2025 by Eric Nilsson
[1] “BOTTOM WON’T STAY LATCHED. SPENT OVER ONE HOUR REVIEWING (WORTHLESS) ONLINE MANUALS, YOU TUBE AND EVEN TIK TOK VIDEOS. (GOOD LUCK!!)” I’d originally propped the Dyson up against the desk.
