IT’S MY CHAIR
I’d always wanted a wing back chair, because they are so lovely for curling up in. But I could never find one that didn’t offend my fairly modern sensibilities (plus, most of my life I couldn’t afford to buy furniture). Luckily, they became fashionable a few years ago, so my husband got me one from Restoration Hardware. It’s perfect: blue-green with dark wood legs. It’s my chair, just as the low-backed chair is Mr. Bunny’s. I’m very fond of my chair, even though I don’t spend much time in the living room (where it resides) unless we have guests. Yesterday I was wandering around house tidying things, and saw the chair from across the room. I realized I haven’t sat in it for a while, and this is because when we have people over, BFB* is almost always there, and it’s become her chair. It’s good for nursing, you see. So I get the couch. And I realized that I’ve got all these mental images and, indeed, plenty of photographs, of her being all MOTHER in my chair. That shit ain’t right, I concluded. So I sat down resolutely in my chair and told myself the following: This is your chair. You will sit in this chair pregnant with your child. You will nurse your child in this chair. You will sit in this chair while your child runs around the house, when he (turns out it’s a boy) leaves for school for the first time, when he tries to sneak into the house as a teenager, when he comes home from college. This is YOUR chair.
Don’t think I actually believed myself. AS IF. But the nice thing about such pronouncements is that I won’t find out that I’m wrong for a few years, most likely.
*Have you started wondering why I’m friends with this person when all I do is complain about her and resent her? Well, this is a particularly tough year for our friendship, plus this is the place where I come to vent. And to answer Pundelina, I’d say 70% of the time I tell her when she pisses me off, but sometimes you gotta let it go. Or else you spend all your time hashing out your feelings. And I gots drinking to do.