Todd Johnson On Dyson Love
How a Dyson vacuum cleaner changed my life.
My Love, My Dyson
How cool design, a British accent, and the promise of no more dust bunnies transformed this household neer-do-well into the king of clean.
For the record, I’m not a slob. I abhor clutter, dirty dishes, messy vanities, and that little space between the toilet’s seat and tank that stays perpetually filthy no matter how often you clean it. See? A slob wouldn’t know about that space.
However, there are some household duties that I dutifully avoid. The dust rag and I are lifelong enemies. My bed stays disheveled unless guests or the maid come over. (I can’t have her see how I really
live.) And as for the laundry? Thank God for my Neiman Marcus card. (The day I show up for work naked, all will know I’ve exceeded my limit.)
But it’s the chore - nay, the futility - of vacuuming that drives me mad. Vacuum cleaners wheeze. They cough. They drone on and on as you robotically drag them over the same spot, trying to pick up that last tuft of dog hair. Ultimately, you surrender, bending over to pick up the debris. Why? Because vacuum cleaners suck. Or, more accurately, they don’t. And that, friends, is maddening.
I thought I was alone in my madness until I met James Dyson. Well, I didn’t meet him as much as see him on a late-night commercial while I watched "Frontline." (Okay, so it was really a "Melrose Place" marathon. Let’s move along please.) "I just think things should work properly," the jaunty British chap explained. "So I created a new vacuum cleaner." And then I beheld the face of God.
Tall and handsome, my yellow-and-graphite savior was the ideal combination of smart design, savvy technology, and the latest trendy gadget. I didn’t care if it worked. I knew I had to have one. A trip to the store and $500 later, the Dyson was mine. Dog hair, tremble before thine enemy.
Now, I don’t vacuum, I Dyson. That’s how much I love this brilliant machine. I still don’t quite understand how the mighty household appliance works. Something involving centrifugal force, unobstructed airflow, and black magic. But I don’t care. All I know is vacuuming is pure pleasure, no longer a chore. Plus, it’s a lifestyle that offers new reasons to accessorize. (So far I have the mini-turbine head, stiff bristle brush, and the carpet cleaning kit. I have my eye on the flexi crevice tool. Luckily, there’s always Christmas.)
My Dyson-less friends - poor souls - don’t understand my fervor. "It’s just new," they say. "You hate vacuuming. This Dyson thing will never last." And I confess: I may not be as into it as I once was. But it’s indisputably the greatest vacuum cleaner. Ever.
And though the infatuation may have worn off a bit, I still listen for my Dyson beckoning to me from behind the closet door, its siren song sweetly singing of dust bunnies undiscovered. Before I know it, we’ve romped to the couch, for yet another adventure under the cushions. Ah love.