There is nothing so beautiful as a man vacuuming like there's nothing he'd rather be doing.
I mean that in the sense that if you can read the manual for your new blender like it's a sacred scroll containing the innermost spiritual secrets, lost and found again on its storm-torn journey from Tibet, then you're probably going to make it through life okay.
And I mean that in the sense that birds will still dump white and vaguely green gifts on your car. The train will still rumble by at 1:00AM, just when you were willing to commit to a good long sleep. When you give the last of your McMufffin the collarless, rusty red setter in the park, he'll still bite the good goddamn out of your calf and leave you to hobble over to the ER in your last pair clean pants, now bloodied and pockmarked with holes from his teeth. They'll charge you extra to buy them like that by next year.
You’ll twist your leg this way and that, trying to get comfortable in a waiting room that refuses to offer you comfort of any kind. You can feel the ache of it deep inside your leg, the burn of it toying with your bones, twanging a sullen note against your hamstring.
If you can tell yourself that there is beauty in this, if you can appreciate the fact that the chairs in this room are the exact color of wheat, then you'll get through this. You'll get through this okay.