Drunken Sofa

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

Wingman even went so far as to get us another couch. It’s a beauty. Grey, down filled, with a handsome tuxedo arm and metal legs.  I tested it out in the showroom and enjoyed having it under me. But there just wasn’t enough of it. It’s only 28” deep as opposed to the 38” depth of our oatmeal monster. Our ugly sofa is so big that I can lie flat on my back with a bowl of popcorn beside me and a 60 lb basset hound sprawled out perpendicularly at my feet.

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.