The only real furniture I had in my first apartment was a Stearns and Foster pillow-top bed which cost me $1,000 (300 of which came from my mom who last bought a bed in 1986 and doesn’t believe that prices have changed) and a 70s era sectional couch which cost me $30 and a regrettable afternoon with my dorky classmate who liked me but had a truck.
Before that sweet bed that felt like I was being hugged by marshmallows, I had an air mattress which was only softened by an egg-crate foam pad. Before the chicka-chicka bow-wow sectional, I had the floor.
I was living with my fiancee, a GED grad who said that we shouldn’t buy any furniture until he got a job. The only furniture that appeared during his stay was a recumbent bike. I don’t understand the logic of buying exercise equipment when your bed easily deflates and when you have no jobby-job.
So eventually Sir Warcraft McChampion and I broke up and he moved out and there I was in a drafty apartment with a card table holding up the computer, a bed that most people used for camping and grooves in the carpet where someone spent hours moving but not going anywhere at all.
And then I met Mike.
After one of our first dates, I tried to say goodbye in the car, but he wanted to walk me to the door. During those fifteen steps from the car to the loveshack, I tried to think up a sexy way to say, “Let’s not go into the bedroom yet. I have to find the airpump first.”
Instead I confessed, “Don’t freak out but I don’t have a couch.”
“Okay…” he replied.”That’s not awkward.”
And can you believe he still married me after that? After he walked in and found out that I had put two folding chairs together for a chaise lounge?
I still am trying to absorb the idea of moving into a brand-new shiny home where no one has lived in before and nothing inflates or needs duct-tape to work.