Sometimes, life feels like someone’s about to yank the rug out from under me. You really don’t want that happening if you’re Aladdin, mid-magic-carpet ride—or if you’re like me, dreaming of being an astronaut and floating among the stars. I even imagined having a mischievous, well-meaning genie like in I Dream of Jeannie to help me navigate cosmic adventures. Because what could go wrong when magic is involved?
Unfortunately, my closest brush with space travel was visiting Cape Canaveral—and the only genie magic I experienced was Dijon mustard mysteriously landing on my shirt, courtesy of a prankster Djinn who thought condiments were comedy gold. Or yellow.
I had just about given up on my dream when I walked into a local antique shop and spotted a lava lamp straight out of the 1960s. It reminded me of David Bowie’s Aladdin Sane album cover—something about the lightning bolt and spacey vibes seemed like a cosmic sign. Inspired, I bought the lamp, along with a groovy shag rug that looked like it had survived Woodstock. I figured if Bowie could reinvent himself as a space-faring rock god, then maybe a little retro magic could help me channel the right vibes too.
I feng shui’d the whole place (is that even still a thing?), dimmed the lights, and admired my mid-century aesthetic. If Christina Aguilera ever wanted to drop by and sing “Genie in a Bottle,” I had the perfect setup.
The lava lamp looked a little dingy, though, so I gave it a wipe. No genie appeared. No Christina Aguilera either. I figured, hey, maybe I needed a nap to properly manifest my cosmic destiny. I dozed off on the shag rug, dreaming of rocket launches, stardust, and genie lamps, until I was jolted awake by a loud rumbling beneath me.
For a split second, I thought my retro decor had worked—that the rug was lifting off like a rocket booster beneath me, propelling me into orbit. I was ready to yell, “Mission Control, we have liftoff!” But as reality set in, I realized it was just the old radiator shaking like it was trying to break free of its earthly bounds. In my half-asleep state, I stumbled to my feet, tripping over the shag rug in an unholy mashup of The Twist and slapstick choreography.
I flailed, knocking the lava lamp to the floor, where it began to bubble and make my living room look more like the surface of the sun or Jupiter’s volcanic moon, Io. At this point, I figured the genie had seriously misread the itinerary. I had signed up for an expedition to our moon, not a one-way ticket to inhospitable destinations.
When the chaos finally settled, I lay sprawled on the shag rug, staring at the ceiling like a failed astronaut who missed their flight. My dreams of space exploration were officially grounded, but at least I’d learned one thing: if you can’t fly to the moon, you can always just cut a rug instead and try to do Michael Jackson’s moonwalk. Just be careful not to moonwalk your way into another lava lamp fiasco.
