My Recliner

erlandh-Lounge-Chair-Red-800pxYou promised!” my wife yelled down the stairs.

I did.

I promised to go shopping for patio furniture with her but I can’t – because I can’t get out of my recliner.  It holds me in too tight of an embrace.

It seems that every time I sit in that chair, I sink in a little deeper. Every time, the foot rest tilts me back a little further.  Every time, the cushions wrap around me a little tighter.

I fear I have crossed some threshold whereby it has become impossible to get up under my own power and I should have seen this coming.

I love the recliner and it loves me.  Although it sounds strange, it is perfectly natural for people to form such a bond with objects. We do it all the time.

Throughout our entire lives we are attracted to beautiful people and delightful things and we pay them no more than a lingering glance, until that special person or exceptional thing comes along and then it is electric.

We just know they are right for us. So it was with my recliner.

It was love at first sight.

Well… to be honest, it was infatuation at first sight. Love came later.

Over time my recliner molded itself to me. The stuffing compacted to fit my form and the springs adjusted to the way I sat.  I changed too.  My muscles learned to relax to the contour of the chair and my blood to regulate itself to achieve maximum comfort while sitting.

And it is this molding of one to another that is the essence of love.

It is how we perfect love itself and after being together for years, I can truly say that I profoundly love that chair.

My wife sees it differently.

What I claim as breaking in, she insists is breaking down.  She says I spend too much time in my old rotting recliner and I understand her jealousy.  She simply does not respect the love I hold for the chair and it holds for me.

But now it is holding me in place.

I worry about that. Sometimes relationships can become unhealthy and when love keeps you locked away from the world, it is time to reevaluate your commitment.

So at the furniture store, I explored new options.  I found a brown leather recliner with heat pads, magic fingers and a cup holder.  Plopping into it, I banished all fidelity to my old chair.

My wife however was not pleased.

She spent twenty minutes searching the store for me.

“You promised to look at patio furniture,” she reminded me.

I did.

But I couldn’t get up.

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