The ginormous sofa has been purchased, special order, no turning back.
It won’t be ready for a while, which gives me plenty of time to worry. Will the color be right? Will it fit in the living room? These questions and more I ponder as my buddy Linda Buescher and I do our four-mile loop around our Smithton neighborhood.
Maybe you’ve seen us? Two middle-aged women taking a walk.
We never speak of manicures and laundry. Our walk-and-talk discussions run much deeper than that.
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“It’s brown, isn’t it?” I ask Linda.
“No Michelle. It’s tan. Don’t you remember?”
I honestly don’t. There were way too many fabric swatches to choose from.
That’s why I asked my stylish friend Linda to help me make the sofa’s final color selection. My husband Mark couldn’t care less as long as what he sits on is comfortable. And our son Sam? He’d plop on the floor if you let him.
Now that the sofa has been ordered, I’m having second thoughts. It’s twice as long as our present sofa.
It’s twice as expensive. And I’m scared.
“What if we downsize in the future and it’s still in good shape?” I ask Linda, who responds with eyebrows raised. “It’s way too big to move to a villa. And we can’t just throw it away...
“On second thought, it’s made so well, it will probably outlive me.”
At this point, our walk-and-talk conversation takes an interesting turn.
“I’ve got it!” Linda tells me. “We can bury you on it!”
“Go on,” I say. “I like where you’re going!”
As we turn onto Chestnut Oak Drive, Linda lays out the details — all of which involve laying me out on the new tan divan.
“It’s such a pretty sofa, who needs a casket? And it’s so long you’ll have room to stretch out.”
When Linda gets bored, her imagination takes flight. As with me, this usually occurs between mile two and mile three. So her timing is absolutely perfect.
“You could wear red,” she says. “It would really pop with that sofa.”
“I look good in red,” I muse, “with blue undertones.”
Linda’s plan would include laying me out in our living room because moving the ginormous sofa to a funeral home would be way too much trouble.
“We can just roll out a red carpet that matches your dress,” she says. “That way, there won’t be scuff marks on the floor from all the mourners who pass through.”
Because I would be dead, this wouldn’t matter to me. But Mark likes a clean house, so I think he’d go along with her plan.
As for flowers, both Linda and I vote for white roses. They’re neutral so they would go great with tan and red.
And all the dignitaries have them at their funerals.
By the end of our walk, I was feeling really good about my sofa. It might be too big. It might be the wrong color. But given the alternative? I think I can live with it.
“Just hope it’s not drop-dead gorgeous,” I told my friend.
She laughed out loud as we turned to go home.