I just bought a recliner. For myself. Oh yes I did. Me – the woman who once threatened a man with dire consequences if he so much as browsed in the recliner department. I believed then (and maybe it’s true) that the combination of a recliner and a TV remote spelled the death of a relationship. Only now I don’t care because I have a big crush on this chair.
It’s butter-color leather, and it’s one of the smaller ones. It’s looks a bit like a side chair, but make no mistake, it reclines. One touch of that side-lever and whoosh, legs are lifted, back and neck are supported, and it becomes a cocoon. A cocoon that swivels and rocks and does everything except read my book to me.
Some people I know who’ve owned and loved recliners were disposed to do so because of health issues and these chairs are certainly the ticket for people who need to nap in a propped-up position. My father, toward the end of his life, was more comfortable in his recliner than anyplace else in the house, and from his seat of honor, we all gathered around him to visit.
But I didn’t buy this lovely hunk of leather for any sensible reasons. I simply fell in lust. I’ve always been partial to rockers, and especially swiveling rockers. Yellow is my favorite color, so this one called to me from the corner of the hospice thrift store, where it was almost hidden away.
I sat down and in a policy reversal worthy of a seasoned politician, decided this chair needs to be delivered to my house tomorrow.
Ó Anita Garner 2009