The dangers of loving your Dyson too much

Disclaimer: I still love that goofy-looking little yellow machine more than I love egg rolls. But I have come to the conclusion that it is bad for me. Very very bad.

My tennis elbow *snicker* (that terminology used to describe my problem still cracks me up) - I mean, my repetitive motion injury - had gotten better since I started working out at Curves. I was so happy because that meant that I apparently didn't need to do any other physical therapy for my arm. I was on the mend! And ahead of schedule, to boot.

Then Little.Yellow.Different. entered my life last Saturday, and I became a total vacuuming ho. I vacuumed our entire 3000 sf house, including the tile floors and wood floors. I even hoovered our sofa, recliner, and two wingback chairs. Who does wingback chairs? (Okay, if YOU do, don't tell me because I'll feel bad that I haven't done it in five years. Bleh.)

As it turns out, vacuuming is repetitive motion at its finest. The next day my arm was throbbing again. It was then that I realized my greatest fear: the new love of my life had betrayed me. Oh, the agony.

So ... this morning I took two painkillers, then went to the drugstore to purchase a new arm support band. Yes, I am that devoted to my Dyson: I shall drug myself and wrap up my injured limbs in order to keep the dream alive!

Now if someone could tell me how to channel that devotion into laundry, I'd be forever grateful.