When I got out of college (many, many years ago, it seems), I moved from Indy to the Washington, DC, area. I had both an apartment and a roommate that lacked clever nicknames (I think dwellings should have names, really. In college, I lived in Echols House, the Cave, Mt. Olympus, and Joe Bob's Chicken Lounge. Since college, I lived in this generally nameless apartment -- sometimes generically called the APT -- the LUVR Lodge, the SNC, the Pointe, and the Halfway House). The roomie eventually received a good nickname, but the apartment never got one. I didn't really fret about it, though, because I thought the apartment lacked something much, much more important: a couch.
As I prepared for my move, my grandmother, who was in her final stages of a slow and ultimately ineffective fight with lung cancer, told me to take whatever furniture I wanted from her by then unoccupied house. And take I did. I came away with end tables, coffee tables, lamps, and perhaps other things I can't remember. I don't think anyone would be confused enough to call those pieces of furniture stylish, attractive, or even not ugly, but they were all well-constructed, and the price was certainly right. However, I did not come away with a couch, and we started off our apartment dwelling days with a futon performing make-shift duty as a davenport. I kept in mind that I needed a real couch, but I also figured I couldn't afford one I might want. I didn't really have much money, and I just didn't think furniture was a good way to spend what little I did have.
A couple of months into our lives in the APT, my roomie decided to purchase a kitchen table off of a bulletin board at work. I went with him to collect it, and the seller asked if we knew anyone who needed a couch. Being the savvy shopper that I was, I told her that I wasn't sure, but I might know someone who needed one. She said she didn't really have room for her divan, but it was a good one, really comfortable, that I should sit on it to try it out. I sat down, and maintained my skeptical, wary consumer posture. At least I attempted to, in that I refused to give voice to the impressive sigh/groan of contentment and relaxation that had welled up from deep within as my butt found a place that it would like to spend considerable time. But I couldn't admit any of this to the seller, lest she try to rake me over the coals.
"I guess it's pretty comfy," I allowed.
She said, "I guess I need to get rid of that chair that goes with it, too."
"I can pass that on [to my 'friend' who might want one, remember?]. How much are you wanting to sell it for?"
She crinkled her brow, and said, "I don't know. Maybe $125?"
"Each?" I asked. I didn't really have $250 to be spending on furniture.
"No. Total," she replied.
Now that seemed like a deal to me. A celestially comfortable couch and a matching chair, both in good condition, for $125?! Still, I couldn't appear to be too eager. I wasn't some rube who just came in with the last turnip truck. (I had driven my brand new Ford Contour.) I told her I'd pass it on. As soon as we left, I told my roomie that I was going to buy them. How's that for savvy?
And so began the Days of Soft Couch and Brown Chair. I believe that most of you who read this blog have at least sat on them, and several of you have even spent the night dozing on Soft Couch. When the Girl and I moved into the Halfway House, many of our helpers talked smack about the dilapidated state of Soft Couch, and I told them all to shut the hell up and lift. They were probably right, though. Soft Couch has been great, and I don't know how it would work out in terms of Ass Hours Per Dollar, but it has to be an awfully high number, given that it has often had anywhere from one to four (and occasionally five) people on it over the last 11 years.
However, Soft Couch has begun it's death march. Not long ago it started making clunking noises on the Girl's end whenever she sat down. We were talking about it the other night, and her brother suggested that we should look underneath because it might be a spring and it might be hurting the floor. Sure enough, it was a spring, and it had torn hell out of the floor. It was a sad moment for me (and not just because we had torn up a spot on the nice wood floors of our rental house). I had to confess that it's time for Soft Couch to go.
So I find myself once again in the position of needing to buy a new couch and not really knowing how to go about it. Should I spend a lot of money on a really nice one, recognizing that I spend tons of time there? Should I buy something cheap, recognizing that I spend tons of time there, and I'm only going to destroy it? How do I figure out who makes quality stuff that won't be uncomfortable in a year? How can I possibly find a couch that will treat me as well as Soft Couch?! Sigh. I probably can't.
All that kvetching aside, I need to move on. But let's not lose sight of the great times Soft Couch has given us all.
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