Me and my mid-century couch
This story is about me and my mid-century couch. Last year we moved to a new apartment. It’s cozy. It doesn’t have enough seating for a dinner party, yet. Which is good because we’re still enjoying the time getting used to the sound of the city outside. We’ve spent most of our time apart the year before. My couch tucked away in my sister’s basement through the cold and lonely winter. Me spending my nights on my parents various sofas. They had five couches. Another one was kept in the barn until My father and I delivered it to the YWCA to be used in a home for girls. Now they have four. One is also a sofa-bed like my mid-century. But it’s new and it’s just about as comfortable as my mid-century.
Over that winter, I put on an uncomfortable amount of weight. My sofa, she’s always been heavy. A solid hardwood frame and metal fold-a-way bed can’t compare with today’s hollowed out shells of upholstery. Some of them do strange gymnastic inspired dips and flips to turn into flat sleeping surfaces. I have slept on many of these contraptions and consider some of them to be wholly unfit for habitation.
The move to our new apartment took two men. Just like the day when I first met her. Only this time, it wasn’t college basketball players with a dolly, but two strong men with forethought and might. Many noises were made as she ascended the curved staircase. She looked green the whole ride to the new place. That’s not true she’s always been green. Before she was some sort of striped mint green canvas, when she came out of the basement of my friend’s Grandmother’s house. Her insides were flowered and stuffed with a sweet matching mattress. Allergens deeply seated within her core, meant I had to immediately toss her matching insides and replace her soft, but worn exterior. Rope inside the piping on her arms was showing. She really came out of her shell afterwards. I chose dark olive green wool. We kept her original design, piping and three upholstered buttons. Those buttons were now worn proudly. She could now be napped upon, face planted into and shared with guests. Wool (a terrible fabric for households with cats, luckily we’re both allergic) and an a messy owner also meant extreme caution had to be kept within a distance of 10 ft.
It’s been four years. Many nights have been spent atop her new locally made (sadly not matching) mattress. She creaks once in a while, but her springs are in terrific shape for someone in her 60s. And for someone half her age waking up after an afternoon nap or a night in her company, it’s hard not feel confident that she’s got my back and that she’s going anywhere without me.