We recently got a recliner, and it’s our new favorite toy. I know that some families get jet skis, or sports cars, or three-room tents. Don’t get me wrong: We’re a healthy, active family who exercise and eat right. However, I’m with the Most Interesting Man in the World on this one: “I don’t always lie around, but when I do, it’s in a vegetative state.”
The chair was free, which makes it even more comfortable. My aunt bought it, used it for a short time, and then decided it wasn’t quite what she was looking for. I don’t know how long she had it, and it really doesn’t matter; she takes good care of her stuff. It’s virtually brand new.
So this chair is really comfortable. It’s in the reading room at our house, which is a room that has no TV, just some bookshelves, books, leather couches and a vintage jukebox that doesn’t work. My husband, whenever he sees me sitting in the chair, says, “How does my chair feel?” I reply, “Our chair feels great.” We both sort of make a break for the chair in the evening, or on the weekends, when the time is just right. If I get it first, he gets a sad look on his face and sits in the 80-year old creaking rocker and winces in pain with every rock. If he gets the recliner first, I sit on his lap. That’s how we roll. He eventually moves.
It’s hard to describe how comfortable this chair really is. One day, about a week after we acquired it, I nestled into it to eat my lunch. Since I work from home, I had nobody watching the time-clock; and since there is no time-clock, I closed my eyes. And then the funniest thing happened: I fell asleep. And then the most horrifying thing happened: My four bosses came home from boss school. As they bounded through the unlocked door, I looked up and smiled a loungy, chair-drunk smile. That’s right: I was high on chair.
“Really, Mom, this is what you do all day?”
“No, but this is what I did today, from 1:30 – 3.”
“What’s for dinner?”
Lately, I’ve been using the chair as a docking station for my butt in the morning, while my teenagers get ready for school. Since the chair is in full view and earshot of every room in the house practically, thanks to a winning open floor plan, I am totally accessible. With my coffee, slippers, blanky and phone, I sink into my chair and wait out the clamor. By 8:15 a.m., I am high as a kite, but I am technically also working, because I’m checking my work E-mails that have come in overnight. I’m also being a mom, ready at a moment’s notice to help someone find lost crap, or sign random pieces of paper they shove in front of me.
“Here, you need to sign this.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a durable power attorney over your estate. I showed it to Dad last night while he was asleep. He mumbled something about you signing it first.”
“Well, ok, if he said so…” I say, in my chair-induced haze.
All of this is leading up to the moment, a few weeks ago, when we moved the chair from its temporary December position in another room, wedged between the piano and the china cabinet, back to the reading room.
That’s when the dead-beat squatters staged a coup.
“The chair needs to go there, by the bookshelf!”
“No, it needs to go by the jukebox!”
“Can the chair go in my room?”
“When are we getting the jukebox fixed?”
“Yeah, let’s get the jukebox fixed. It’s cool!”
And that’s how it went, for approximately 20 minutes.
My head spinning, I told them to put the chair wherever they wanted. When they were finished, the reading room looked like Fred Sanford’s front yard.
“Can we keep it this way?”
“Sure. Until you leave for school tomorrow, which is when I’ll put it the way I want it.”
The next morning, at approximately 8:16 a.m., I rearranged the room and placed my high-chair next to the window. Then, I went to work upstairs, waiting patiently for nap-thirty.