I flop on our sofa after a busy day, thankful it’s comfy and fairly presentable.
Unlike its predecessor, Old Plaid.
I don’t remember Old Plaid’s original hues. After a quarter century, it could only be described as kid-colored, a motley mix of Kool-Aid tints. Rubbed with greasy popcorn, anointed with salsa, its cushions had been shaped into forts, castles and stair sleds, its creaky hideaway bed ravaged for M&M’s.
Call it a record of family history.
Call it a mosaic of life.
I called it butt-ugly. Its saggy condition reminded me of my own losing battle with gravity. I would have sawn Old Plaid in half rather than move it to our new house.
I delayed calling The Salvation Army, afraid they would turn it down. So, I made my husband call.
When their workers loaded Old Plaid into their truck, I wanted to kiss their feet.
I also wanted to throw myself into their path: “Stop! Don’t you understand a mother’s and grandmother’s heart? My babies puked on that sofa for decades!”
I had to move on. After waving a sad goodbye to Old Plaid, I forced myself to seek a new, pukeless sofa. Sensing my pain, Hubby stayed by my side. He also went sofa shopping because it involves lying down and taking naps.
We found the perfect couch. At least, I thought so.
“Red?” Hubby stared.“Red?”
I gave him credit. Although his very DNA rejected it, he went along with me.
Unfortunately, the poufy, red sofa also was a sleep machine. Every time I sat, I would lapse into a week-long coma.
A neutral shade might work better, anyway. We examined a few hundred brown sofas. One’s fabric resembled a quilt made of old bomber jackets. I liked it. Hubby, in the last stages of terminal shopping, agreed. Our grandchildren couldn’t damage it; the sofa already looked like they had shaved it with driveway rocks. Plus, we would look cool. However, our children, who don’t appreciate our Old Hippie ways, would have us committed.
So, we made a responsible, boring decision. I turned down the red sofa. We ignored Big Bomber and bought a different brown couch.
This sofa of destiny belonged in our family. Solid and great for a long nap, but not fatal. It made friends with our carpet and drapes. We christened its teddy-bear-soft cushions with Sunday afternoon naps.
Occasionally, I recall Old Plaid. Maybe another young family’s toddler soaked it with his Sippy Cup and made it feel at home. Or some unsuspecting in-law has spent tortured nights on its hideaway, never to straighten again in this life.
I still miss Old Plaid.
But not that much.
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: What “Old Plaid” do you miss?