There was a time, not that long ago really, when a lonely and obsessive-compulsive man, unable to sleep, might have spent hours on his hands and knees, raking and grooming the floors of his apartment with his fingers, venturing into corners and hard-to-reach places to gather handfuls of hair, dust, random miniature tumbleweeds, and wispy nests of inexplicable origin. From this material he might, depending on his level of boredom and stupor, create a series of small, reeking ashtray fires that would be moderately fascinating, if not quite entirely amusing.
A fellow could easily be defeated by the eternally circulating dander and fluff of this world, by the mysteries of its origins, production, and composition: Where exactly does this stuff come from, and why is there so much of it? How could one man, a man who is in no way even remotely hirsute, shed so much pubic hair, and cast it into so many unlikely places?
These are all preoccupying questions, questions for which some scientist might provide a satisfactory answer. I am not a scientist. I do not have any satisfactory answers. I can tell you, though, that thanks to the wonders of the Swiffer—a gizmo I adore above all other gizmos—my obsession with monitoring and addressing the ceaseless moldering of my existence and my private space has a new, healthier, more graceful and dignified, and certainly more efficient focus. Swiffing, I have discovered, is great fun, and when you Swiff as aggressively and obsessively as I do (and sweat as copiously as I often do while Swiffing) there are also, I think, aerobic benefits to the activity. The Swiffer is an ideal dance partner, or the perfect companion for a plodding, meditative trance. It’s also already earned its own Wikipedia entry, which I intend to embellish when I manage to actually pull myself away from Swiffing for a time.
Perhaps you are one of the several dozen poor souls who remain in the dark about the Swiffer, one of the great modern marvels of design and utility. In which case, there clearly is something wrong with you, and in all likelihood you are living in filth. Also, there is really no excuse for your ignorance. The Swiffer is cheap, plastic, and snappy as all get out. It is easy to assemble and even easier to use. It is a magic wand disguised as a sort of stylish mop. The secret to the Swiffer’s genius is its disposable “electrostatic cloths,” each of which is, according to the Procter & Gamble packaging, “textured with deep, V-shaped ridges to trap and lock dirt, dust, hair, and even crumbs.”
The true Swiffer aficionado knows these electrostatic cloths are reversible, which means you can use the things twice. I’m amazed so many Swiffing enthusiasts don’t know this already. The pleasure of this discovery had nothing to do with frugality and everything to do with confirming that there are still parts of my brain capable of analytical function. The cloths can also, of course, be used as simple and effective handheld dust rags, to clean household items and reach places the Swiffer cannot, although there are very few places the Swiffer cannot reach. I routinely Swiff my walls and ceilings, for instance.
The “Swiffer family” has now grown to include the Swiffer WetJet, the Super Swiffer, and the Swiffer Sweep & Vac, but I don’t know anything about these recent innovations. I’m more than happy with the basic model, which has transformed my life and provided me with hours of nocturnal enjoyment. I find the compulsion to Swiff is strongest in the small hours, when I am most keenly aware of the impossible battle against dirt and disorder. In those moments, gliding alone around my apartment, I find that the silence of the Swiffer, or rather, its calming, rhythmic sibilance, is perhaps its ultimate virtue in this noisy and degraded world.—Brad Zellar
