I have a love-hate relationship with couches. In the first flat I lived in after fleeing the parental nest – actually, I was flung out, rather than fleeing – there was a sleeper couch that stuck with me right up until my daughter turned one.
Another couch that lived with me for far too long was unceremoniously thrown away because its owner really grated my carrot. No matter how many times I had it re-upholstered, it was just never comfortable.
Then there was the lounge suite I loved too much for the memories it held. I didn’t want to let it go, because I didn’t want to live without the good feeling it gave me every time I sat down. And then there’s our lounge suite now. It’s the first I’ve ever owned from new, and it’s probably time we replaced it. But not just yet.
I’ve moved and packed up home more times than I care to count. Sometimes on a whim, other times a necessity. But each time, I’d end up settling into the familiarity of the couch, knowing that, no matter what, there was comfort. Even though I’ve outwardly loathed change, I thrive on that little sparky shakeup.
As a young adult, I believed in minimalism. I had a second-hand television, and a couch that had been through generations. Even as my daughter took her first steps, I was washing her onesies in a second-hand washing machine. But, after I turned 30 and she turned five, something changed within me, and I felt foisted into proper adulthood.
It may have been the death of my mother in the same year, or it may have been turning 30 that did it – I can’t distinguish between the two because they happened simultaneously – but something did click over within me.
Suddenly, I was “adulting” up my house, and installing new furniture for the first time. It started with a new fridge and slowly worked around my house until every major thing in my house was replaced, moving us from ‘second-hand city’ to ‘brand-new-ville’.
But now, I look at our lounge suite, where it’s worn away, been napped on and gnawed on (thanks, puppy). It’s the spot where I’ve cried and where friends have collapsed in a heap. The couches have cradled my kid as she reads, and offered a comfortable spot for late night movie watching. This is our grown-up couch, all sewn up with memories and family history, and probably an array of coins and cutlery too.
When I sit on it, I’m reminded of my parents’ green and cushy couches. We used to tip them sideways when someone lost a wallet or cutlery, and interesting bits and pieces would tumble out.
Evolution always needs a home base. It’s on the couch that we talk about change, discuss how to handle it and take in a movie while thinking things through. For us, it’s a springboard for change. And that’s why, right now, I don’t want to change it.
Leave a Reply