The Story of the Couch

Tingle's comment about how comfortable our couch gave me the idea for this post.

Our couch began as my parents' couch, purchased in 1976 when we moved into our red-siding-and-cream-brick ranch house. Thus, the couch entered my life when I was just 5 years old. I barely remember the old green one we had before that, something circa the early to mid '60s judging by its stark squareness and the spindly legs that held it a good five inches off the ground.

This was a big couch, long enough for my Dad's 6'2" frame to fit on it comfortably. It was a FlexSteel, my parents' favorite brand and now mine, after seeing how long this couch has lasted. The background was a yellow-brown, babyshit color, and emblazoned over the somewhat rough upholstery were large flowers of many varieties, in shades of reds, yellows, and browns. Very hip in '76.

The couch used to sit at the end of our very long living room, underneath a forboding painting of three ships sailing through stormy waters. That picture was hideous and frightening all at once, and god I was happy when my parents finally ditched it (within the last 10 years, no less). Anyway, since back then I was a spry, lithe, energetic little girl, I didn't get a whole lot of couch time — unless I was sick.

I can't remember how many feverish evenings, sore throat mornings and vomity afternoons I spent on that couch. Mom brought the piano bench over to serve as a sidetable, and on it were my tissues, barf bowl if necessary, books if I was up to it, and a half-flat half-full glass of Orange Crush, with a straw of course. Back then, we didn't have a remote control, or even cable, so there was no point in watching TV. Usually I just lay in anguish, living for the moments when someone would come over and ask me how I was doing. I was very needy (still am) when I was sick. If I was lucky, "Little House on the Prairie" would be on and I'd be able to break through my feverish haze to watch Pa and Ma teach Laura, Mary and Carrie all about right and wrong.

Years went by and before long I was moving out, going to college, living in the dorms. No need for a couch, and my parents were still using it anyway. Then setting up my first home with J., we got a different hand-me-down, a hide-a-bed that weighed about 8,000 pounds and was never comfortable. We moved that fucker around to like 6 places, and still have it in the basement.

Anyway, about 5 years ago, my parents announced they were getting a new couch. What!!!!! Get rid of THE couch? No way. I was shocked. It would have been like selling my childhood home or something. Always a sucker for free furniture, and with this one entrenched so lovingly in my memory, I asked if we could have it, and they said yes. With delight I set it up in the living room. Two slipcovers later, it's still going strong. Yes, it's a little bony in the back and if you sit down too hard you might hurt yourself. And yes, it's a little bit low to the ground, so it's a struggle to get up (J., watching me get up off the couch the other night after watching figure skating, coined my motion the "double-hoist"). And when it's not covered, it's an ugly motherfucker! But sink down into the cushions for a night watching "I Love the 80s" or "Celebrity Fit Club" and I dare you to match the comfort.

My parents, unfortunately, don't like their new La-Z-Boy couch, and often pine for Old Yella, but I firmly refuse to return it. I still spend sick days cuddled in it's soggy embrace, and it's like being at home again, except that nobody is going to come over and ask me what I'd like from the store or tell me how bad they feel about me anymore. J. agrees that it is the most comfortable couch ever. We will ride that thing until it won't ride no more, and it will be a sad day indeed when it's long life comes to an end.

So, you can see now how the couch has the capacity to come between J. and me. Honestly, though, I don't think it means any harm.