Today they tried to deliver my new couch and we found that the made-in-California plum softsuede behemoth didn’t fit into my rinky-dink New York City elevator. The driver had to shlep it back to the warehouse. After thwacking myself repeatedly on the head for not measuring the elevator before ordering the couch (who measures elevators?) I spent the afternoon working on solutions.
Having it carried up 19 flights would have cost about half of what the sofa itself cost. Sending it back to the company for them to modify it would have cost hundreds in shipping and labor and I’d have no couch for another six weeks. The only thing that made sense is to have the couch’s arm taken off and then reattached in my apartment.
Did you know that there are at least two dudes that do that in New York City alone? Amazing. I’m putting my faith and my couch in the hands of The Couch Doctor. He sounded confident and competent. When he comes on Wednesday, I will have to ask him if his mother goes around bragging about “my son, the couch doctor.” Or maybe not so much.
Anyway, that got me thinking about how many times over the years I tried to make things fit when they just weren’t meant to, and how (with the exception of this sofa, pictured above, because it’s just so awesome) I will not do that anymore. Can’t. Too busy and over it. Done.
When I was in my 20s, I went out with quite a few fixer-uppers (who understandably resented my attempts to fix them up) and others still who were just not quite right for me. If I really liked a guy, I’d try to shape-shift to conform to whatever I thought would be a good match for him, before realizing how pointless that was and moving on to what I hoped would be a more natural fit. Being in my 20s, of course, meant I had to do this 30 or 50 times before the lesson stuck.
Or sort of stuck. I’m now 44 and going through a divorce, and the long and the short of why, from my perspective, is that I’d have had to take myself apart á la my couch and reassemble myself in order to fit into the marriage. The stakes were high (two kids and ten years) so my husband and I tried for many years to make it work. Ultimately, the marriage wasn’t changing to accommodate me as-is, and I found that trying to wedge myself in was futile. I guess I needed to learn that lesson one last time.
But it’s learned now, and one of the gifts of being on the other side of young is that I think it’s finally going to stick. I am profoundly sick of pushing and trying to make things fit that just aren’t meant to. I even gave away all the beautiful shoes I owned that no longer fit my expanding feet. They may have been beautiful, but if they hurt, that’s not enough.
So fingers crossed for this sofa making it inside my apartment. Please send me your good sofa karma on Wednesday.