It’s become glaringly apparent that my husband’s recliner—which was an eyesore to begin with—is now severely worn looking, and in my estimation, needs to be replaced. To my great astonishment, he’s actually agreed to it. Well, more or less agreed to it. Anyway, this should prove interesting, as Tim and I have vastly different ideas of what makes a chair “acceptable.”
So I’ve been obsessively studying chairs online as to get a better idea of what I—oh, of course I mean “we”—want. Trust me, before being greeted by salespeople afflicted with strange ocular occurrences that produce dollar signs to form in their eyes as soon as they see you, it’s a wise thing to do. You see, I believe they lie in wait for clueless customers, who are not only uncertain of what they want, but also are unsure how much they want to pay for whatever it is they weren’t convinced they wanted in the first place.
I’ll be the first to admit I am very picky about furniture. Tim, however, is not—except for when it comes to “His Chair.” Why is it that men have this preconceived notion that a chair can’t possibly be comfortable, unless it looks like an ugly, overgrown baseball glove? I showed him at least half a dozen beautiful chairs that had fancy claw feet, wingback styling, plush cushioning, and were also recliners. Upon seeing them he grimaced, grumbled that they were not comfortable, and disgustedly turned away. Having never sat in them, how could he possibly discern such a thing? When I asked him this, his reasoning revealed to me that he’s flat out decided if they look that good, there’s no way they could be comfy. With dead certainty, he then pointed out chairs he knew would be suitable; these, of course, all looked like something Goliath would make a catch at third base with. Again, I asked him how he knew this—since he’d never sat in them, either—and he conveyed to me that he “just knew.” Sigh…
Hopefully once we embark upon our quest into the land of furniture showrooms and overly friendly sales staffs, I’ll be able to convince him to at least try sitting in something that looks nice. Although I get the sneaking suspicion that if Tim actually does find one of them particularly comfortable he won’t admit it, out of sheer stubbornness.
In the end, it is “His Chair” and I can’t make him listen to the voice of reason which states, “A chair can be both comfortable and attractive at the same time,” because he’s too busy playing a broken record in his head, sung by the Secret Man Code Singers, that proclaims, “Your chair must be the ugliest piece of furniture in the house, no matter what.”