Four years ago, Wingman and I made a decision to get rid of
our sofa. I’d bought it 2002, and it was easily the ugliest piece of furniture
I’d ever seen. It was also one of the biggest, with ungainly proportions that
dwarfed everything in the room. (Including me, which I liked). Not to mention
that it was poorly made, it’s sprawling cushions covered in a cheap beige
upholstery fabric that looked like a giant trough of porridge.
When we moved into our current home, we had to remove the
legs and jam it through the door frame, resulting in several tears across the
top. What wasn’t torn in our various moves was punctured by three sets of front
claws. So - every inch of the giant sofa boasts either holes, tears, breads
crumbs, red wine, dog hair, cat hair, or fleas (mostly dead). It’s a mess. And,
we still have it.
‘Don’t you think it’s time…?’ suggests wingman timidly, from
time to time. I turn paralytic
with indecision and change the subject. ‘Do you recall what Tonya Harding threw
at her boyfriend that caused her to go to jail?’ (Answer: Hubcap)
Man's Best Friend |
The sofa dominates our small living room, and I should hate
it, but I don’t. It’s my pal. Better yet, it’s family. It’s as though your
favorite Eastern European uncle came over to your house, in a light brown
sweater and matching pants. After a few too many beers, he slumps against the
wall and lands happily on the floor with his arms wide open. Over the next
twelve years his sweater is covered with food, and the dog pees on his leg, and
he gets fat, but he’s still smiling and his arms are still wide open. That is
my sofa.
And because I’ve spent so much time being horizontal over
the last 2 ½ years, I’ve come to love the drunken sofa even more. It means I
could lie in it like a bed, rather than go to my room. It means that someone
could spend the night, very comfortably, if they choose. It means that all the
pets could lie with us, and have room to stretch. And it mans that I could curl
up into its filthy embrace and feel like I was five years old again.
The handsome gray sofa sits under its plastic wrapper in
storage. It is a classic design that will never go out of style. Meanwhile, the
big sloppy sofa doesn’t have too much time left. The seats are already covered
in blankets to cover the holes. And it’s gained at least 30 pounds thanks to
all the dust mites and dog hair. But I love it. And I have one more little
surgery left after which I’ll need a big oatmeal hug.
So for now, it stays.
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