A couch is often the centerpiece of a room finally full of life. It’s for laying on and crying when the grief of the day makes that day one of your worst. It’s where you smile and laugh during one of your best days, too.
The type of couch you bring into your home is not a decision to be taken lightly. Some go comfort. Some go fashionable. Some go functional. Let’s be honest, some also go frumpy. Seriously, who wants those little ruffle things at the bottom? Are those like, to prevent people from seeing the crumbs that fall off the tray table from your TV dinner? I mean I had plenty of Hungry Man chicken dinners as a kid and lack introspection but that just seems like an ill-advised style choice regardless.
When I finally had a closing date for my new condo, I knew the first thing I wanted was a couch that gave adult vibes. Single adult vibes. A single adult who had their shit together vibes. A single adult who had their shit together and therefore knew what they wanted and what they wanted was modern, adult sex without any frump vibes.
Initially my platonic soulmate was going to join me for furniture shopping. Secretly, I’m glad she passed. I could browse on my own time, intentionally run my hand slowly over the backs of as many couches as possible and make my own decision on what kind of couch I felt comfortable on top of, that felt like it fit my style, that felt like I wanted it underneath my thighs.
I was aching to feel like myself, empowered, independent, full. I wasn’t going to settle for just any couch. I was pleased when the first furniture store I visited had a decent spread. I was intrigued by the idea of one of those Mad Men style brown couches with a pattern on which you could lay your back. But those began to feel wrong, too, like a frumpy couch.
Once you get the frump you translate that to a puke yellow color couch with flowers to match your wood paneled elongated sedan. Lost to the frump of time, these cars would lose the remembrance of their name, and their meaning. I’m all for an intentional retro t-shirt but not a couch. Futons aren’t really my thing, either. An untethered metal futon frame flew out of the back of a truck turning onto the highway and missed my windshield by mere inches once. Sure, it might have been a bit thrilling, but once was enough for that experience.
Shopping for this possession of all my own would come to a climax highlighted in a piece I wrote about the wildly absurd lead-up to my divorce meant to be delivered in deadpan called No More Fucks to Give:
As I browsed the mock living rooms in the three-story tall furniture store, I settled on a light brown leather couch in a minimalist style but with slightly sloping down arms for a nice youthful, modern look.
Oh yes, this was the couch. Photo taken by me and not by a professional.
The couch was absolutely perfect. I tested it out, one arm over the back, gazing longingly at my pretend soon to be lover as we spoke intimately of our lives and vulnerability until we couldn’t take it any more and kissed passionately, then our lips part ways and we look at each other like holy shit what just happened and we go in for another kiss and I put my hand gently on their chest and say “wait, if I kiss you again I’m not going to want to stop, can we have a conversation about consent” and then we do and we fumble over each other to the $2000 king size mattress I splurged on and proceed to passionately fuck in each others arms until she starts to fall off the bed and I grab her before she does and she orgasms as I hold her close, which makes me orgasm too and then we go into making things raunchy with a strap on and we ask each other if we want it rough or fast or slow or gentle, completely respecting one another’s boundaries and safe words all weekend long until we need to order brunch because I am too wrecked to cook breakfast.
Ok listen, I know I’m trying too hard with this sex stuff but I was married for close to ten years. Sexting was generally off limits. Morning sex was off limits. Sex anywhere but the mattress was off limits. I ate so much ass. In the last six months of our marriage I probably vigorously destroyed at least three vibrators. Besides, there’s something riveting about admitting how bad you want to get intimately railed after kicking off your emotional exploration on a couch that gets you almost all the way there.
I clung to one of the cushions and used my imagination to craft a room around my new piece. My style is nothing if not immaculately coordinated. My furniture store monitor brought me to the basement to whip through rug after rug hanging from a ceiling high rack. I was looking for symmetry that avoided stagnation. After tossing options aside, we wound up landing on a lighter colored rug in a traditional pattern but somehow updated. There were enough colors to cultivate decor around and best of all included color highlights that matched the couch cushion completely.
Rugged brilliance. Photo taken by Sail Away Photography, an actual professional.
It wouldn’t be long before I was swiping my credit card through the machine at the counter, begging this store to take my money. I even smartly bought leather protection to apply twice a year to keep the cushions from ripping if I was repeatedly too rough. Best to play safe.
Scheduled to arrive on the same date of my larger move, I waited just inside the door to my condo, anticipating the announcement of the delivery men arriving via my buzzing phone. They would have three flights of stairs to traverse before entering the condo door to slide the couch over the vinyl floor til it hit the perfect spot I had picked out. At this point I’m ready to fuck anyone that moves.
But my sensual aspirations were cut short. The three men attempted to push the couch through, turn it on its side, slide it diagonally. But my new condo- the condo that had given me freedom and the promise of growth, that I had loved at first sight- had an entryway that was three inches too short for this particular couch.
I stood five stairs below the third floor landing, clutching at my shirt. My hand started to beat on my chest slower than the heart within it. All of the emotional fortitude I had built to this point in the day had been stripped away. I looked up at the ceiling as my freely flowing tears became my new language. In less than a sentence I explained that my pain was not the mover’s responsibility, but rather the result of a life I envisioned being yet again just out of reach.
The mover at the top of the stairs stared coldly for a brief, almost comedicaly timed moment. Unphased, he told his boys to bring it back down. I started to apologize to one of the younger movers when he came back up the stairs. I didn’t want him to think it was his fault, but instead he said he heard my story and wanted to offer some compassion. I was too embarrassed to have thought I could have had what I wanted to accept his offer.
I texted my friends about the couch. Within moments, someone offered me their frumpy yellow futon. It was the ugliest thing I’d ever seen. But it was also the most beautiful gesture I had ever known. My friends knew what this new life meant to me and they wanted me to have it. (To be clear, I did not accept the frumpy yellow futon. I still have some style standards, even amongst friends).
I texted the salesman at the furniture store (on his work phone, you pervs). He said he would schedule someone to be on site to help me transfer to a different couch or get a refund. When I went to the store, a woman gave me a run through of my options. We visited the display that the couch- my couch - had been settled within. I loved the style, so I opted for the shorter loveseat. The salesperson was gentle with me. She said she was glad I was getting something I wanted because the previous salesperson had been very clear about how much love I had for my initial purchase.
To be honest, I wasn’t sure if this couch was going to work out for me. I was nervous because if I sat on this loveseat with two cushions instead of three, it would immediately put me close to someone. How would I know it was game on before deciding to take the chance and sit next to them? Would I still have the same emotional lead-up, or would it be too much too soon? Would I have to sit elsewhere until I was comfortable and meanwhile they would think I wasn’t interested and so they would get up and leave?
Even the best color coordination couldn’t fully be planned for in this new home layout.
Photo credit to Sail Away Photography again.
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