The New Couch

Howdy and welcome back! Today, I have decided to humble myself before you and share an embarrassing yet funny (hopefully) story.

First, here is what you must understand: for most of my life, I have been considered smart. Definitely not street smart: book smart. Growing up, my siblings all had “things”: oldest sister rode horses, brother played basketball, and little sister played guitar and sang. Not me. Nope. My “thing” was academics. Which, incidentally, they all also were very good at but I was the smartypants and LORD, did I love to let them know that!

I graduated in the top of my high school class and decided that I had already proven myself and so went into an “easy” major as a film production student in college. After I graduated (soon after the 2008 recession), I could not find a job to sustain myself in my chosen profession and so made the difficult but, you guessed it, smart choice to forego my dream of being a film producer and went into a corporate marketing job instead.

Over the course of my life, I have been a very conservative person, VERY risk-averse. As all my friends and family can tell you, I will think things to DEATH before I make a move or a decision. It’s just who I am. And you know, it’s pretty much panned out for me. Whether its been lucky timing or my actual brain working well, I’ve managed to stay just ahead of the curb, leading a successful and happy life. All of which I attribute (arrogantly and foolishly) to my excellent brain.

Now, there is one thing I was not ready for as I got older (I’m getting to the story, I swear). My brain is, like, melted. I am stupid and getting stupider by the day, I do declare. I often joke I have a single brain cell left on the hamster wheel and, honestly, I don’t think it’s too far off from being reality! I have read about many potential causes including doom scrolling, using AI (ChatGPT is my new bestie I won’t lie), or years of copious alcohol drinking. Regardless of the reasons, my brain is beyond foggy nowadays.

That brings us up nicely to the current version of me. And two years ago, I was ready: to finally ditch that small, apartment-sized sofa I had bought years ago and finally get a big-girl couch. You know the ones I’m talking about. Big, cushy, fluffy. Like resting on/sinking into a cloud. A couch where my 5’8” frame can stretch out and my feet NOT hang off the edge. A couch so comfy and wide two of me could lay side-by-side on it. The COUCH. Practically the epitome of the American dream (oof, what does that say about us?). I had saved my dollars and was ready to GO FOR IT. I researched (as I do best) for months, comparing fabrics, brands, size, number of pieces, and types of cushions. I ended up with a giant, cream, down-filled behemoth of beauty from Living Spaces along with a matching oversized chair and ottoman. Glorious. Beautiful. Gigantic. I could ACTUALLY seat my entire family in my living room now if they all came over at once. I was so excited. I placed my expensive order, justifying it with the fact that I had saved, that I DESERVED, that my visitors DESERVED…. And then I got the email with the delivery information.

Now, my house is not very large. In fact, it is actually slightly smaller than the last 1-bedroom apartment I had when I lived in Austin. It was also built back in the 70s. I am not sure what bearing that has on the story except to say that if sizes for the doors to your house were standardized at some point, they were not standardized at the time my home was built. The sofa required a 36” door opening, a standard width for exterior doors in the US, as I came to find. I measured my front door: 32 inches. Uh oh. But then I remembered with a sigh of relief: I can just use the carport door. Easy peasy. I went over to measure that: 28 inches! Cue the dread: the clammy sweats and the twisted gut feeling. No problem, I thought, I can figure this out. I AM the smartypants, remember? Since my couch was being custom-built and would take at least 6 weeks to arrive, I did what any reasonable person would do: I blocked the issue from my mind, trusting that my big-brain would come up with a solution… eventually.

The 6 weeks passed in a blur (it was around the holidays so I was busy with end-of-year wrap-up at work, Christmas shopping, etc.). Finally, I got the email: the couch was ready and would be delivered in a week! Hooray! I rejoiced. About two days out, I got a second email confirming the date and time I selected. All good to go. Blockage still firmly in place until….

I was so excited I let my family know that my big-girl couch was arriving! They all rejoiced. Except for mom. Always gotta ask the hard questions, that one LOL. And she asked, hey, did you ever figure out which door you were going to get it in?

Cue the panic. I had two days to figure it out as the bandaid was RIPPED off the wound, bringing the clammy sweats and the twisted stomach ache all back with a vengeance. I ran around, measuring and remeasuring, trying to figure out how to grow my doorways 4-8 inches in 48 hours. I even considered having my door AND door frame completely removed (if that sounds desperate, it was! Since my couch was custom-made, there were no returns or refunds. I HAD to get that thing in my house). And like a flash, it hit me: the BACK DOOR.

I could have them bring it around the side of the house, through the pedestrian gate, into the backyard and through the back door of the house. I went and measured the back door: 36 inches! I breathed a sigh of relief and let mom know that my big brain was ALL over it. Problem solved, crisis averted, thanks to my great and grand intellect. Then, that annoying, jiminey cricket-conscience of a mother asked: oh good. What about the gate? I rolled my eyes even as I straightened my back, took a deep breath, and marched out to face down my final foe. I measured the gate: 34 inches. You have GOT to be kidding me.

But finally, FINALLY, the brain kicked in. The brain (or should I say, the last brain cell) that loves to problem-solve and find any and all solutions. And as I stood there looking forlornly at my gate, already bidding farewell to my great white couch before she had even arrived, I noticed it. They had mounted a two-by-four to the block wall, which is what the gate connected to. A two-by-four. Do you know why those are called two-by-fours? Because they are two inches wide. Fireworks went off in my brain. I was shaking as I held up the measuring tape to confirm: yup, it was two inches. If I could remove the bulk of the two-by-four, the area where the couch on a dolly would pass through and leave the top and bottom of the wood in place, I could get the couch through the gate and still be able to shut it at the end of the day. Eureka.

I am happy to report that this worked but not after a LOT of heckling from my family. This was a couple of years ago as of the time I’m writing this post and, to this day, if I try to sound smart my family immediately asks about couch measurements.

So what is the moral of the story? Maybe that things, including your own body and mind, change. Maybe that someone should lead with humility, and not with pride in one’s self. Those are grand and good, and I am definitely taking note. Perhaps the moral of the story is this: get your measurements and troubleshooting done early so you don’t give yourself a heart attack and/or an ulcer at the last minute. But the most important lesson?  I think it’s the one on the surface: make sure your couch can come through your door.