The vacuum rattles and hums its familiar too-loud chorus of "there goes a penny, there goes the pewter terrapin earring, Baby's first tooth, George Clooney's direct number, dog hair, cracker crumbs, ticket stub to Rabbitania, snark you-was that a dessicated bunion I just sucked up?!"
The vacuum chokes and dies, and you drop to the floor ready to unsnarl the muddle because after all, even though you wear stilettos your mother wears Army boots and you feel a familial obligation. But as you lean into the burning-rubber cloud billowing from the downed appliance, you flash on your pal, Galleycat, and wish you'd followed his lead and stayed upright in the chair with a pencil and paper because your suddenly spasming back muscles feel as if promenading poodles are, yanno, promenading across your backside. And as you lie there facedown, poodle hairs tickling your deviated septum, you could swear you hear and feel the roar of the greasepaint, smell of the crowd, and you rally.
But even with your MFA mentor's voice shouting "Drop everything and give me ten ... books," you cannot move.
So you grimace and bite your lower lip, raising yourself to your elbows shouting to the ghost of the still-alive Julie Andrews:
A will of the wisp,
And miraculously, the pain vanishes.
You stand, upright and confident, on deck and ready to Bat Segundo.
The roar of the crowd melts into the vacuum's hum.
When Miss Snark says "suck it up" some people just take it literally.
Scores to come