I can only assume that most of us have had days that feel like we’ve sleep walked into the center of an active volcano, set up a lounge chair, and turned on the world’s most poorly made movie to pass the time while we wait for molten lava to melt us feet first. The demolition of our Christmas decorations, together with an untimely battle with our vacuum cleaner, made yesterday one of those days.

At around January 18th, incidentally yesterday’s date, neighbors, friends, and even family from innumerable miles away start to wonder about your sanity if you still have your Christmas decorations up. Especially if you still have the nerve to light your Christmas tree. But I may have already griped enough about my wishes that Christmas could extend a little longer. I only bring this up to set background for the story of the day I spent in a volcano.

It started when I decided to take down my decorations.

“Mom, tell me it’s time.”

“It’s time,” she said. “You’ll feel better when the clutter is gone.”

First went the nick-nacky things from the shelves, then the glow of the lights draped across the table. Slowly the ornaments were packed away and the strands of twinkling beauty unraveled from the branches they clung to. I imagine it’s a rather traumatic experience for them–letting go of their evergreen home.

I broke the artificial tree into three pieces– one for each piece of my shattered heart–and shoved it in its off-season coffin. All the boxes were packed away. It was time to sit back and drown my sorrows in leftover holiday candy and non-Hallmark television.

But with my legs propped up on the couch, my eyes came to rest on one of the most horrifying sights I have ever seen. A faint ring of pokey, green, artificial tree needles on my white carpet. Needles mean vacuuming. And vacuuming, as you well know, means death.

We’ve all seen the preventative propaganda that tells parents of young children to tie up the chords of your blinds, tells women to keep the chords of their blowdryers away from the bathroom sink, and begs eskimos to keep their space heaters away from shag carpet. But where are the disclaimer stickers on the common household vacuum cleaners? They should warn against inevitable anger and possible tripping hazards that come with the unraveling of the vacuum chord. From plug to appliance, the thing snakes around in all the wrong directions, cuts off blood flow from your ankles down, and often threatens to be sucked up into the vacuum itself.

Yet it is still almost always too short to get the job done.

My battle started with the important debate of what plug to choose. One would be closer to the spot that needed cleaning, but would require me to back tread over the chord or somehow swing it over my shoulder like a wilderness survivor. The other plug was all the way across the room, but the chord would theoretically stay behind me the entire time. My confidence higher than it should have been, I chose the closer plug. This time I could master the chord.

So it began. I methodically approached the needle-covered four foot-by-four foot area. The first few swipes were effortless. But with each tug and pull, the chord had to be manipulated in such a way that it would not get sucked under the vacuum, but would still stay in the loose outlet. (Does anyone else have that problem? Outlets that are so loose even stationary plugs fall out every five minutes?)

The balance was impossible to maintain. What should have been a two minute chore flashed before my eyes as the thing that would take me down. I was too young to die!
I don’t remember anything after that thought, until the plug fell out of the socket one last time and I decided that was close enough. Props to my man Adrian Monk, who prided himself on his perfect checker board vacuum lines. I was just happy to be done.

So I am here to echo (and edit) the words of country singer Rodney Atkins:

“If you’re going through [vacuuming]

Keep on going, don’t slow down

If you’re scared, don’t show it.

You might get out

before the devil even knows you’re there.”