My Life, My Couch, and the end of the World
To say a man must overcome obstacles in life is bull. In actuality, he must learn to mold himself, however painful, to the couch he has. If you take that couch away, you upset a delicate equilibrium of epic proportions.
Years ago, I bought a big couch, had a new section made to extend it an additional five-feet to fill a long wall in our living room. I figured I had paid too much to the tan beast, even an additional charge for the Scotchguard treatment.
Whatever that was.
The fabric was a strong weave that withstood twenty years of spilled drinks, crazy parties, children, and later teenage sleepovers where six of them could stretch out on the beast after staying up all night watching movies and spilling potato chips and soda on the couch. The mess would wash right off and once a year, we would strip the covers off the cushions and toss them into the washing machine. A quick spray with a new can of Scotchguard (for now we knew the truth) and away we went, fully secure that our beloved couch would stand the test of time.
My kids loved the couch, all secretly asking me that, one day, would I give them with the couch? And one day I did.
But hold on a moment. Little did I know what would happen to me after I gave my couch to my eldest beloved daughter.
When I had bought my couch, I had also, against better judgment and common sense, hired an interior decorator to furnish the rest of my newly built house. I only had one condition that I got to keep the beast couch. The woman from hell filled my house with chairs and other couches that, on the surface, appeared beautiful and each a fine addition to my new house. What happened is the woman filled my house with useless, over-priced junk. How I found this out should be a lesson to all.
I gifted the beast to my daughter, who secretly had worn me down over years and years of subtle hints. To me, the beast would be a fine addition to her new house, and she and her family could enjoy another twenty years of service, as this couch was indestructible, or so I thought.
The day arrived, I was in fine health, no back problems on the horizon, I was super dad, helping to load the beast, section by section onto a huge car carrier my son borrowed to help his loving sister transport the beast. I advised, in a super dad way, how to strap down the cushions that had seen so many family Christmas’s, so many birthdays and secret smooches. I also learned all the smooches weren't mine.
I went back into my now bare living room, thinking about how we would just go out a buy new coach, one that fit my smaller house now that the kids had moved out. I sat in one of the designer chairs. I felt a twinge in my butt. My back didn’t like this chair. I tried another. Even worse. I stared at my empty living room and sat on the floor to watch the news. What had I done to myself?!
The next morning the answer came. The front of my right leg was numb and someone had stabbed a hot poker into my back. My eyes opened wide as I stumbled, wide-legged around my empty living room, like a dog trying to pass a peach pit. Where do I sit now? I never had a problem sitting on the beast, the beast knew me, and I knew it well! It cared about me; we both gave a little and loved each other. The designer chairs stared at me like a Catholic at a Jimmy Swaggart revival. “You sir, are not welcome here!” In defiance, I plunked my hurting arse into one of them and dared it not to help me. I mean, I paid for this hunk of junk right? The chair rebuked and what followed was a scream that should not come from a man. Ever
It was then that I got the call. A flying couch cushion almost killed my daughters, who were going 70+ on Interstate 4 in Orlando. She and my youngest daughter had been following their brother, who was transporting the beast to her new house when it happened. In angry words she blurted out the tragedy, how the biggest cushion had caught the wind, and leaped into the cold night air, trying to escape. The mutinous cushion hit the pavement and burst into a million little feathers as its soul left the Scotchguard weave and scattered to the wind. As of this account, it is still there, lost and all alone somewhere south of Sanford, Florida. How I would take that ruined cushion now and squat like a homeless beggar upon it, to save my own sore ass. If only I knew then, what I know now.
The couch becomes you.
If you have ever visited a beloved friend or relative or slept on a strange couch, or god-forbid, a futon, then you know. Your body will scream out in despair. You will walk around, trying to maintain a conversation, all the while, your eyes search for a seat to sit upon, one to help you while you are forced to watch old family movies, or gaze like a prisoner at Aunt Gladis’s photo album of prize-winning roses. You can’t get comfortable. And you know it. Once you are home, you can be comfortable, be happy, be yourself. Home. That is if you have a place to sit. True terror is when your back is killing you and search as you may, you end up throwing all the pillows and cushions you can find on the cold, unforgiving carpet and pray you will fall asleep before your butt realizes it is NOT welcome here. You eye the pain killers the dentist gave you. You wonder how much vodka you can drink while laying flat staring at the ceiling.
Obstacles in life are normal, take a seat, Jimbo, we will work this out. But when your seat is the problem, you’re not working it out, Jimbo.
So off we go, in search of a new couch, head woozy from the pills and smelling like vodka, to the furniture store. Rows and rows and beautiful, new couches, just like the ones SHE had put in my house, the ones now trying to kill me. I sits on that one; I sits on this one too, ignoring the price tag, for there's no price tag on your sore ass. BUT none will do!
I miss my old couch. Someday the truck will come and deliver our new one. Someday. And this time, I will talk nicely to it, buy extra Scotchguard cans and sit gingerly upon it, hoping there is a symbiotic give and take of cushions and butt. My back will heal upon its loving springs that have accepted me like an Avatar horsey.
Until then, we hope, pray and vacuum where it will rest.
- JK
- Check us out:) http://www.artfulthingsshop.etsy.com/
I hope you enjoyed reading my stuff. Thank-you. If you found this cool, please hit “recommend” or click the little “share” icon. Your Karma will be updated promptly…
Also, feel free to follow me on Medium, as well as check out my Twitter and my Facebook.
