We had a single square of blue carpeting in our one-bedroom Miami Beach apartment that needed some attention. I drove far out of the city to a giant warehouse specializing in any gadget with a plug or a motor. The store had questionable origins, and even more questionable clientele.
I wound my way through keyboards, stereos, flat-screen televisions and hand mixers until I found the vacuum department. And right there, between the bagless and self-propelling models, I had a panic attack.