I need a new chair.
Don’t be distracted by the cute pillow here. Or, for that matter, by the cute cat (although it’s a good thing he’s cute; he’s also the reason our Thanksgiving plans were so spectacularly derailed).
I don’t have much against this particular chair; I seldom sit in it, so the terribly pokey springs in the cushion don’t bother me. Most of the time, the cats aren’t allowed in my tiny, tiny study, so the slipcover (old enough to be a college sophomore) is in good shape. Most importantly, unlike any furniture made for normal people who live in normal houses with normal doorways, this chair fits. I’m happy to leave it be.
But this chair has an evil twin. It resides in the living room.
First, some background. Forty years ago or so, these chairs belonged to my paternal grandmother. By all accounts, she was a woman of taste; nevertheless, the fabric that lies beneath these pristine slipcovers —a mauvish brownish tweed with orange flecks— bears the touch, perhaps, of a domineering designer who helped her pull the room together all those years ago.
For as long as I can remember, we’ve had these chairs; for almost as long, the chairs have had these slipcovers, which are now missing most of the buttons that secure them in the back. The chair in the living room has suffered at the paws of my badly behaved cats and is mostly in shreds. I got sick of it a year ago and banished it to the garage; this year, ever mercurial, I brought it back in, only to discover two horrible things. One, the rotating bottom of the chairs (they spin—why?) has worked loose on the evil twin version, causing the chair to tilt forward dangerously when weight is applied. It even startles and flings cats to the ground (a plus?). Two, I apparently made some garage mice homeless when I brought the chair back into the house; the chair now dispenses some unspeakable traces of these former occupants.
Excuse me, I have to go scrub myself all over with Clorox wipes.
My dad, who has known these chairs for longer than I have, made the mistake of sitting in the evil twin chair a few weeks ago. The moment he sat down, he said, Oh. I remember this chair.
As far as I can tell, these have always been pretty terrible chairs. But I remember them. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I’m fond of them, but I’m accustomed to them. And that’s why I live with them, in spite of their many sins. I’ve been shopping around for chairs for quite some time. I’ve found, oddly enough, that I like the shape of these chairs more than I like the shapes of most chairs. I can’t quite bring myself to abandon them. Still, this mouse thing may just push me over the edge—if only I can ever reconcile myself to bringing another sacrificial slipcover into my living room. Maybe I’ll just get a lawn chair. A plastic one. That I can hose off. Or clean with Clorox wipes.
i always loved those chairs! i had no idea that they were evil and twinned.
that cat is out of control.
there must be something about lying on their backs that is therapeutic for the fat ones. it’s oliver’s standard pose.