I’ve long given robot vacuums some side eye. How lazy, I thought. But as I was looking around my life, I was starting to see a lot of dust.
I pondered. Researched. Hedged. Asked friends. And after a month of consideration, I went to the store and bought one of the darn things.
If there was any doubt before, I think that this is officially the turning point that I’ve become an asshole. One that raves about their ridiculous robot vacuum.
It goes places I never dreamed of cleaning—under the tv stand and ottoman, beneath the sink in the bathroom. Back in that corner behind the table? Didn’t exist before now! It ducked under my couch and fished out a roll of posters I’d forgotten about that need to get framed.
Now I walk in the door and the floors are cleaner than they’ve ever been under my watch.
Not all is perfect, but I know it’s just a newborn finding their algorithm in this world—pulling tucked away cords out of the shadows and forgetting where home is.
And of course Edie loathes it—so much that she must monitor its every movement with suspicious eyes and fluff her tail when it randomly makes a beeline in her direction.
So here we are, trying to get along—my cat, this robot vacuum and an asshole.