Sleeping on the Couch

One of the last major furniture pieces we bought for the Boston condo was a couch. There was a bed, a kitchen table, a computer console, and various chairs (whose trendiness was directly proportional to how uncomfortable they were) but, not being one to sit in front of a television very much, a couch was one of my very last priorities. At the time, I was going to school and working a part-time retail job (if 35 hours a week is part-time), so saving up for big furniture pieces had to be done piece-meal. Fortunately, my parents threw me a bone, and gifted the place with a couch. It was one of those things I didn’t realize how much I missed until it came back into my life.

There was something suddenly thrilling about being on an island of comfort in the midst of an unforgiving hardwood sea. To walk in from a long day and just collapse on the soft-backed pillows, kicking off shoes and giving the pumping of the heart a rest – it was all new to me again, and I loved it.

While most husbands might dread a night on the couch, I’ve never minded it. (Not that I would ever be the husband out on the couch – I mean, come on.) It always reminded me of having company over, when my brother and I would have to give up our bedrooms for visiting family and guests – or when I’d have a friend stay over in Boston and I offered to stay on the couch. The excitement that attended such displacement made it a ritual of joy, and so the couch has been a source of comfort and happy memories.  

Whenever I’m in Boston, I invariably find myself sitting down at some point, usually early in the evening – after coming home from a day out, or in the hours before going out again – not reading or doing anything, simply sitting and enjoying the moment. There is joy to be found in the simplest of things – in this case a couch – if we can remember what it was like to be without it.

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