For the past ten years, I have had a remote control to operate my ceiling fan and light fixture (and set varying speeds and brightness, respectively), and I'll be damned if it has ever been within arm's reach when I wanted it. It is such a stupendously impressive failure of a luxury that I keep it around to remind myself what a charmed life I lead (it's like Downton Abbey but with even more tea)—and that I could probably use the exercise anyway.