OK. If you are peeking early, it didn't take five to seven days to re-enter the Earth's atmosphere. Everything moves so fast these days.
Life lesson learned from this move: be careful what you wish for.
Somewhere in a box in the garage I have a photo from 1986 of three-year-old Michael sitting on the couch in the living room of our apartment in Cedar City. So cute. Head of curls. Striped shirt. Orange vinyl couch.
Yeah. Orange. Vinyl. Pleather. I think it was what we used to call "naugahyde" (Google it, just for kicks).
Our very first couch. We were married almost five years and acquired two kids before before we acquired a couch. It was a sore spot in our early married life that I moaned and whined about often. It was my cross to bear -- we were so poor we didn't even have a couch -- but I wasn't suffering in silence. One time when I was apologizing/complaining that we had no decent spot for guests to sit down, my father-in-law tried to cheer me up with the thought that "it builds character." I immediately replied that I was pretty sure my character was in good shape (notwithstanding my inability to bear deprivation cheerfully), but I certainly could put a couch to good use.
In hindsight, perhaps the invisible couch symbolized other kinds of foundational things missing in our marriage. But now we are getting way off topic.
After a while the in-laws got so tired of my moaning that they offered to deliver a bargain they had found. Someone was refurbishing a houseboat on Lake Mead so we lucked into a slightly used orange vinyl sofa-bed for the low, low price of $50. It was hideous. But waterproof!
Fast forward 25 years. Couches have come and couches have gone. I have known and loved a wide variety since that first orange vinyl bargain.
Some more than others. Most recently a comfy, cushy, rust-colored leather sofa. Genuine leather. No nauga's had to die for this one.
And ironically, or not, you decide, it looks like a sacrifice may have to be made because right now there are no less than FIVE couches in my new living room, on every wall and back-to-back in the middle of the room. Looks like a college dorm lobby. Except not an inch of space for foos-ball or pool table. The rust-colored monster has been too big for too long but I'm having a hard time letting go. Truly an embarrassment of riches.
God and I are gonna have some great laughs together if we ever meet up.
Be careful what you wish for, kids. Life delivers. Maybe not when you need it most. That's the tricky part. But still, life delivers.