Goodbye Sofa, Hello Easy Chair

Every time you move to another town, something gets left behind.

When I moved here I left my couch behind in a dimly-lit consignment shop. Six weeks later, I received a check for $75, half of what some lucky dude paid for it.

I loved that couch. It was big, pillowy and slouchy.

We had some great times, me and that smelly pile of stuffing. While lounging on it, I’ve watched MTV’s “Real World” marathons, read Raymond Carver poetry, drank expensive bottles of wine and took countless naps when days grew short.

Now it’s gone.

Back when I dumped my couch, it seemed like a good idea.

My girlfriend and I would have had two sofas and one apartment after moving to Spokane. There just wasn’t room. Mine was a little worn, but it had a chance for a second life in some college student’s home in Indiana, the place from where I moved.

My old apartment was like a cave that hid the wear and tear. Logically, I knew my old couch would have looked like a swamp on four legs in our my new digs.

I tried to like my girlfriend’s couch, which is in a little better shape than my old amigo. It’s smaller, holds its shape much nicer and looks pleasant with the other furniture.

Sometimes I try to nap on it, but it’s too short. The armrests are too high and hard. The cushions slip from under me when I shift my weight.

The only time it’s comfortable is when I sit up straight. It’s like a cute dollhouse couch.

I hate it.

Once you decide to dislike something, you notice more things you detest. It squeaked under my weight and made watching a movie almost impossible. I was almost tempted to get up and do something.

Sure, there was an accidental spill of wine here, a mysterious dab of chocolate there. One oily potato chip did in a cushion. But those were accidents, not some regimented program of passive aggressiveness.

Fearing her couch was on the road to ruin, we called a truce. It was time for us to buy new furniture, time to put down roots in Spokane.

We perused furniture showrooms, ran an end-around on salespeople and sat on many potential living room candidates.

What I found is that sitting on showroom couches is fun only when you’re not serious about buying. All the driving store-to-store, sitting down and getting up again gets old quick. And still, we couldn’t find anything that met our criteria. It had to be nap-worthy for me and aesthetically pleasing for her, yet capable of deflecting potato chip grease.

We tried a new tactic and brought home a fabric sample.

“How do you think this will look with our decor?” she asked me. Years of experience have taught me to say something quick and decisive.

“Um,” I mumble. “Sure.” She likes me to be involved in all the big decisions.

Then, a miracle happened.

Since I can remember, I’ve envisioned a home with a piece of furniture that’d show up in one of those old TDK cassette ads that used to appear in Rolling Stone magazine. I always wanted a chair used by the guy listening to a TDK tape, his hair and his scarf blowing back as he slouches facing his stereo.

So last month, we bought a chair that matched my memories. My whining stopped.

I began napping again and all was right in the world.

Try as I might, forces of change almost always win.

As much as I liked loungers, I never thought I’d evolve into a chair person. Archie Bunker was a chair person. A couch is social and inclusive. A chair is an island.

But this one was so perfect.

Was it Bill Cosby who said maturing men stop staying out late and begin discovering their favorite chair?

As I nod off now, I wonder how old my dad was when he bought his favorite chair, and when we become our fathers.