Dear yellow vacuum cleaner:
We've only known each other a fraction of your life but I feel I can count you as a close friend. Your sunshiny yellowness makes doing chores almost pleasant and you make me feel very Margaret Anderson-y (from Father Knows Best, because why should June Cleaver corner the market on 50's domesticity?).
Many commercials for vacuums these days boast the ability to be lifted with one hand (or in the case of the Roomba, no hands at all) while perhaps you can compete for the category of "Can be lifted by JUST one person if you really put your back into it." I count this as a plus, however, because you contribute to my overall goal of exercising without realizing it.
Maybe it would be better if your bags weren't available only through mail order. It would be best if you didn't require bags at all. But why should your perfectly usable self languish in someone's garage when the two of us could be waltzing all over the place every Friday morning? You are old, yes, but hardly dead. Why should you be denied a social life?
Someday you might break (after collecting vacuum social security for many years) and it will be a sad day indeed. When that does happen, I will run right out and buy the latest several hundred dollar vacuum model to replace you.
Oh wait, no I won't. I'll probably find another one at the vacuum cleaner museum a garage sale. Who am I kidding?
But it had better be yellow.
But it had better be yellow.
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