The Life of a Couch
On Getting, Using, & Losing Furniture (Messed-Up But Managing #24)
Today we got a new couch. It arrived in a truck that said “Enterprise” on the side, which was fitting because it felt like we were boldly going where no lumbar support had gone before. I mean, this thing has 2 electronic recliners, built-in USB ports, and it just calls for everyone’s attention. It’s big. It’s firm. And for us, it’s kinda fancy.
Two guys showed up, jumped out of their massive delivery truck, and pulled out the couch in four pieces. It was like they were building Voltron, a couch Transformer. Of course, it didn’t walk itself into the house; they brought it in. One of the guys kept doing that weird grunting whisper, you know, the one people use when they’re trying not to drop something heavy or working really hard not to cuss in front of a customer.
Once the couch was in the house (“Couch in the House” kinda sounds like a modern version of “Cat in the Hat”), it grew feet. Not metaphorically. Literal wooden feet. And while I was grateful for those feet, they also felt rather excessive for a piece of furniture that will never take a single step. Instead, it will remain seated. And, after we’ve all let our guards down, especially the wife, it will probably gain some weight by absorbing several thousand chips, crumbs, and Doritos.
Within the hour, we all sat on it together as a family, each person boldly staking a claim like 49ers and miners during the Yukon Gold Rush. Even the dog joined in, staring at us like, “Y’all know I’m getting up there, right?!”
We said no. We said she couldn’t. She licks herself too much and leaves surprise wet spots that are never where you expect. It’s almost like she has a sixth sense for where to leave wet spots because someone is guaranteed to hit her targets when they sit in our house. It’s like a tame version of roulette. Still, we know how this story ends. She’ll be up there by Friday. Probably stretched out more than any of us and trying to hog the remote.
This new couch, believe it or not, really got me thinking. For example, the thought crossed my mind: a new couch is like an emotional family member. It starts off like a new baby. Bear with me and you might get my point. Hear me out. Everyone’s excited, careful, and gentle for the first week. Then somebody spills something, and suddenly it’s just a couch. A month later, you’re yelling at your kids to stop jumping on it like it’s a WWE ring. A year later, you’re eating chili straight from the pot, shirtless, watching YouTube documentaries about plane crashes while slowly fusing with the cushion.
Couches, furthermore, are loyal. They never leave. They never judge. They absorb our best and worst moments. They listen to every fight, every snore, every dramatic pause in every Netflix show we claim we’re watching “for the plot.” They survive toddler spills, teenage attitudes, and adult regrets. We cry on them. Nap on them. Hide from our children under a throw blanket on them like we’re hunted animals.
But over time, the couch ages. The cushions sag. Like each of us, the once proud structure begins to lean, like it’s been carrying the emotional weight of the entire family. It starts to smell. Not smell bad, just...familiar. Like farts, Febreze, and broken dreams. Halcomby, in other words. And then one day, someone says the words no couch wants to hear: “Maybe we should get a new one.”
So it goes to the curb. And it goes with no dignity. It goes with one foot dragging, a pillow missing, and a retainer still stuck between the cushions. You pretend not to see the guy from three houses down who drives by slow, then reverses, then throws it into his truck like he’s rescuing a stray dog. The couch begins again in someone else’s house, where it’ll go through the whole cycle of love and betrayal once more.
If couches could talk, I imagine they’d say something simple. Something profound. Maybe even something a little judgmental. Like, “I was there for you. Through every laugh, every breakdown, every night you fell asleep watching sports you didn’t even like. And not once did I complain.” That’s the thing about couches. They’re not just furniture. They’re family glue. Which is why I plan to love this one deeply and fully for the next 7 to 10 business years, until I dump it without warning and wait for a new one to show up in some spiffy Enterprise truck. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some reclining and napping to do.