The Couches I Have Known

I read this quote by cartoonist Lynda Barry: "If you could only tell your life story through the couches you have known--what would that story be?" I think it's such a cool idea! So I'm going to tell you my life story, through the couches I have known.

Three. 

It is shades of dark orange and brown and yellow, colors that belong in the leaves of trees, not on the design of a living room sofa. It feels scratchy on my skin and stings my constantly scrapped knees as they brush across the coushins. I lay on my dad's belly to watch reruns of M.A.S.H. and Batman and Robin, and we doze, only to be awoken occassionaly by commercials or by each other. Though the couch itself is ugly, itchy, and rigid in a way that couches shouldn't be, it's frim arms hold a precious memory of spending an entire Saturday afternoon being a tator tot with my dad, the King couch potato.

Ten.

The new furniture is delivered to our garage, and we find it there after coming home from school. Though we have been expecting it, it still feels like a surprise. It's brand new, and it matches. I assume this purchase means we're rich. We bring the chairs and table, rug and sofa inside and my parents begin arranging and discussing and rearranging it once more. I can tell that they're feeling rich now, too. We reach an agreement about the placement, and all four of us plop down on virgin fabric, feeling like royalty positioning ourselves on one giant family throne. We turn on the local news and watch together to see what has happened in our Kingdom.

Eighteen.

27 college girls fit comfortably on "Old Blue" in the basement of the sorority house that is closest to campus. Our couch's name was given years ago by other members of Kappa Alpha Theta who once also resided this same house. With each passing plegde class, Old Blue loses more of her feminine shape as her curves become rolls of fabric and bedding. Old Blue is warn, yet warm, like a grandmother who welcomes us all into her wrinkled, saggy arms promising to love us and take care of us. We take refuge in her when suffering from colds, and hangovers, and heartbreak. We gather together to watch marathons of Lifetime Original movies, and she offers us support and comfort. Eventually, we graduate and move on, but Old Blue stays behind, ready to greet a brand new pledge class.

Twenty-Five.

Our empty and echo-y NYC apartment is being swallowed by Ikea boxes and packing material, and we stand in the middle of it not knowing what to do next. We build our beds, our dressers, and a kitchen table before midnight and without the use of actual tools. I curse and you laugh as we wiggle tweezers and wedge butterknives in true McGuiver-like fashion. We are suprised at how resourceful we can be, and our egos are inflated before we begin the desheartening task of assembling our soon-to-be nemesis, The Futon. We begin by taking out the silver beams, nuts, and bolts. You look for the assembly instructions, and I closely examine each piece, holding it up and looking around it waiting for the instructions to leak out of the metal and into my understanding. Neither of us are successful. You insist upon finding the instructions online, even though we don't have an internet connection or smart phones. I insist upon "figuring it out" using what little carpentry skills we posses. We both stand our ground, but eventually both cave, and in the end somehow, the futon is built. We put the tweezers back in the empty bathroom cabinent and the butterknife back in the empty silverware drawer. Though others disagree, to us, our empty apartment doesn't feel so empty anymore.