What is it about Men, and their recliners?
That love/love relationship they have with big comfy chairs.
Overstuffed, overly large, comfy, cushioned, clicker hiding, reclining comfort.
Usually delegated downstairs to the “man cave” along with the big screen TV, so as not to add a note of discord to the beauty of the feminine decor that inhabits the main floor in many houses.
Years ago, one of the biggest choices, and compromises in our then new marriage was the choice of furniture for our new home. The experts will tell you it’s all about children, where to live, money… but it’s furniture, trust me. His stuff, your stuff, how to combine our stuff… big time.
My husband came without baggage, other then a absolutely tasteless off white vinyl Swedish modern, IKEA knockoff, footstool equipped Sears special.
He declared undying love for it. I declared undying love for him, but not for the chair.
A tie breaker? A deal maker? Would it be him, or the chair, or would I have to live with the evil step child of a chair in order to be happily ever after with Prince Charming.
We compromised, and went shopping.
Thus began the search for “I’ll know it when I find it.”
Months later, and more stores then I ever want to visit again, after numerous discussions, disagreements, compromises, and bargaining, he happily settled into a beautiful, clean lined recliner that we could bo th live with. It cost as much as a few mortgage payments but we were happy.
Finding something that pleased both of our tastes was a lesson in subjectivity. But we finally learned to live happily ever after with this new step child, both of us coming to love the chair that took center stage in our living room.
Time marched on, we moved up here the chair took a beating from the moving company that manhandled many of our precious items. It started to grow metal springs like curly hairs from it’s back, transforming from a gentle well behaved piece of furniture to a squeaking, sagging, jolting beast shedding foam chips, and black greasy dust every time someone sat in it.
We gazed with dread upon flyers, and catalogues… how would we ever find a chair that would fit into our family without discord.
We searched, he sat, I encouraged, he declined, I sighed. Chair after chair, store after store, there were contenders, close calls, and compromises. We were rather rusty at choosing, it had been more then a decade since we last adopted a step child chair.
Then one snowy blustery, the first day of spring he found it. He spied it sitting in a row of 20 or so like minded chairs, he sat, he reclined… and declared it the one. Like true love, he knew instantly.
I’m not sure what the future will hold, it’s his true love, I am merely the [wicked] stepmother… but you know, it might grow on me like the other one did. Tell us about your recliner stories… especially if they are the horror story ones… lol.