That Damn Couch

Today someone called to buy the couch. Oh yeah, baby. That’s what I’m talking about.

Perhaps I should start at the beginning …

I have a thing for starting over. Moving to new places and starting from scratch. And the cleaner and simpler that new start, the better. As a result, I pack light.

The truth is that I don’t know if I pack light because I like to travel a lot, or that I’ve travelled as much as I have because I know how to pack light. Doesn’t matter. For me, there is peace in movement. And movement away, with a view never to return, is something like bliss.

When I left Australia to live in Europe I did so with a single suitcase. (And honestly, even that felt like overkill. Me and my damn fetish for Hawaiian shirts.)

Similarly, I don’t like going away parties, avoid long goodbyes, and never promise to keep in touch unless I’m absolutely sure I plan to follow through (which is rarely).

I’m sure this will all be great material for a psychoanalyst one day, but for now I content myself with saying: “This is just the way I am.”

Enter the scene, one wife, who has rather different ideas. She pines for places we’ve left behind. She talks about going to live where she’s already been. She travels heavy.

And linked in with all this, she keeps things. Correction, she keeps everything. It’s hard to get her to throw anything away. Example:

“Can we turf these old sheets?”

“Are you crazy? We might need them one day.”

“But we haven’t used them in five years.”

 “No.” And then that look that lets me know the conversation is over.

Fine. With all our storage requirements the apartment looks like an Ikea showroom. But fine.

There is, however, one, smallish, moderately irritating thing.

The couch.

It has to fucking go.

Sorry. Got a little emotional there for a second. Just the facts:

It’s big and comfortable. True. But it has to go.

In theBerlinyears we practically lived on it. True. But it has to go.

In all likelihood our daughter was conceived on it. True. But it has to go.

And why?

Because the colours are absolutely horrid. (If the metrosexual in me can speak frankly for a moment.)

My wife sewed coverings for it, so it would fit in better with our current décor. And it does. But me, I’m not for these sorts of half measures. I’m for throwing it out the window, burning it, leaving it to charity – whatever.

The irrational in both of us is at loggerheads. Hers to keep it, mine to throw it away.

Last month I thought the balance might have been tipped in my favour when, after strategically positioning some home decorating magazines around the apartment, my wife proposed (without any pushing from my part, giggle giggle) that another style of couch might suit our current needs better than our current, ugly bastard. (My words, not hers.)

Hah!

We took out an ad on an Internet classifieds page.

Hah!

Today someone called to buy the couch.

Hah!

I retired to the toilet (to do some victory reading) from where I heard her informing the interested party ALL about our soon to be ex-couch: the broken spring, the torn fabric, the strange green stain, the difficulty positioning it because it’s so oddly large, the scratches it will make on the floor if you don’t put something under the front, left leg.

Me thinks the good lady doth protest too loudly.

I hear her hang up the phone.

Me from the toilet: “Ahh, when are the coming to see it?”

Wife: “They weren’t that interested after all.” Giggle. Giggle.

And the battle continues …

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2 Responses to “That Damn Couch”

  1. snagglewordz Says:

    I can see this turning into an saga. Or, if you want to get all poetic, an epic saga. You might need to reserve your victory reading to later in the piece.

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