A few weekends ago I took a trip to Boston to meet up with two of my college friends for a little walk down nostalgia lane. We'd questioned bringing husbands and kids along for the trip, and then vetoed that idea, deciding what we really wanted was a girls weekend, and I am really glad we did because guess what we were up to Saturday morning? Walking around the Boston University campus visiting all the dorms and apartments we inhabited during those eventful four years, and then taking pictures of ourselves out front. I'm pretty sure the boys would have put a stop to this activity, oh, before it even began, suggesting instead that we drink beers and watch baseball or something (please note that we girls also did that.) On Friday night, awaiting the third member of our party who'd be arriving at the airport shortly, my friend Ro and I went to the BU Pub, an establishment we'd frequented our senior year, open only to students, alumni and their guests. We sat at a wooden table, just like we did years ago, and drank beer, just like we did years ago.
A little different this time around, however, were the subjects of conversation. We - in tipsy, jovial tones - talked about the health benefits of almond milk, discussed our favorite breakfast options and waxed poetic on the value of a good vacuum cleaner before we stopped to point out that we were now unmistakable 30-somethings, so jarringly different than the 20-something selves that once gathered in this same space.
There was no sadness in this observation. It was, instead, illuminating. And little did I know that the discussion would have lasting implications. Just few days later my friend emailed me with that day's deal on the Woot! website: a refurbished Dyson vacuum cleaner at an incredibly reasonable price. A Dyson! Which we'd talked about enthusiastically over those beers, as I expressed the most boring of my eternal desires: to own one.
I made the purchase in a heartbeat and our new vacuum cleaner arrived a week later. I put the box upstairs, waiting for a quiet moment to unwrap the contents and marvel at this new, lightweight wonder, which would replace our clunky Eurkea.
I never got the chance, though. Because J got to it first, put it together, and was vacuuming within minutes. He's since installed its wall hanger in the basement stairway, where our new Dyson now resides when he is not using it to master the too-frequently occurring dust-bunnies that haunt each and every corner of our house, thanks to our always-shedding dogs.
He's used it to vacuum every day since, remarking cheerfully that he "just wants to keep on top of things," while our children run in horror from the loud sound, unleashed at the most unexpected moments. I, meanwhile, look on happily, realizing that one result of my mini-college reunion - finally buying a Dyson - meant I not only got the item I'd always wanted, but somehow unleashed a passionate house cleaner. I suppose, idealist that he is, he was simply waiting for the right tools of the trade.