Since I’m going to be leaving my couch, I’ve started thinking about why it’s so hard to leave.
It’s not a particularly comfortable couch. It was my dad’s, along with my curtains. It lived in my sister’s room for a while when I was travelling. It’s got bite marks on it from my dog when she was a puppy. It’s losing buttons. One of the arms lists to one side. I can’t even lie down on it properly with out my legs hanging over the side. It’s beige, for god’s sake.
But I love it. My friends know that if they don’t catch me on a Friday night before I sink into it, they’ve lost me. I read there. I catch small sun soaked snoozes there. I’ve lain there looking at boy across the room, wanting to get up and kiss him. I watched Survivor there last night, glass of wine in hand, thinking about this post and what I’m getting myself into. It’s my safe haven. A little soft bit of hide-out that doesn’t ask me if I’ve filled out my tax return or if I should eat that other bowl of ice-cream.
I’ve always felt this way about couches (and comfortable chairs). My mum used to curl up in a big squashed old armchair and listen to Leonard Cohen. My grandfather had a long low couch covered in chocolate coloured corduroy. I had my first kiss on a deep, black leather sofa. My couches in my first digs were so uncomfortable we spent more time sitting on the floor. I spent some of my first weekend in New York sprawled across a buttery leather chaise lounge. I once stayed in a house that had a couch in the bathroom, next to a claw footed bath.
And if I can’t put my feet up on your couch, I’m not really comfortable in your home.
So, you see, I have a small addiction. And like most addictions, mine’s a little out of hand.