Some Assembly Required

After I needed help getting out of our sagging couch for the umpteenth time, I said yes to my wife’s suggestion we shop for a new one. This was not easy for me. I’m a big believer in longevity, super glue and duct tape. When Pat and I got married one stipulation was that none of my existing furniture would be allowed in our new house. She said it was a safety factor with the kids and all, but I think she just didn’t like bean bags. 

So, we headed off to the mega furniture store, a place with more couches than my entire hometown in
New Hampshire.

“Whattaya think of this one?” I asked Pat, as I pushed the auto-recline button repeatedly. “Your end reclines, too. Plus the matching love seat reclines, so we can, like, have two friends over and we can all recline together. We can even have reclining races. See who can get up and down the fastest.” I awaited her accolades.

“Too big. Try this one.”

Grumbling, but realizing all’s fair in love and major purchases, I sat. There were no buttons, no levers, plus I sank until my knees were above my
chest. “Help!”

It went on like this for an hour. We left butt impressions on every couch they had – except of course the ones we both hated. When it finally looked like I might be winning, Pat said: “You know, even if we got the reclining couch, you wouldn’t be able to recline it because the coffee table would be in the way.

She was right. Our modest living room had one floor plan that worked. And without a coffee table I’d have to hold my beer, chips, salsa and the three remotes. I was as depressed as our current couch back home that I slumped back into.

But Pat rebounded. “I found some couches online.” I looked. I didn’t hate them. Plus, they were way cheaper than those store-bought ones and came with free shipping and next day delivery. “And if we don’t like them, we can return them for free.” 

The next afternoon a large truck pulled up and delivered our two brand-new… boxes? On the side it said: “Some Assembly Required.” 

I noticed several other things. First, the seven-foot-long couch was in a three-and-a-half-foot-long box. Second, in large type on top it said: Please note that returns can only be accepted in the original package. Finally, even though the box was sealed with copious amounts of tape, it was also strapped. I pictured three guys with a total weight of about a thousand pounds packing the thing – two sitting on it while the other strapped. 

Always full of encouragement, Pat said: “Let’s get started.”

“You’re going to help?”

“As much as I can.” She held out her thumb which was conveniently encased in an aluminum brace. “I can at least cheer.”

I suggested that required pom-poms and a very short skirt but got no response.

I opened the box, removed all the items and grabbed the instructions. Instructions used to come in a dozen languages, most likely the work of a wannabe novelist trying to keep wine on the table. Today, there is only a basic pictorial map. The last time I tried reading a map, I ended up in Bakersfield. 

But, slowly, and with less than a dozen redos, it all came together. Pat was a big help, holding pieces while I screwed them together and sympathizing every time I stabbed myself with the little tool they provided. 

All that was left were the cushion covers and the insides, which were compressed and sealed into quarter-inch pancakes. The instant I opened them they ballooned. I could visualize the guy who wrote “must be returned in same package” laughing, knowing that even if I gathered all my husky friends, we could never flatten them again. 

The next 30 minutes were spent stuffing, getting my arms stuck several times and threatening revenge on couch makers worldwide. But I did it. Then I sat down, opened a beer and smiled. Pat handed me something: “Instructions for the loveseat. Should be easy now. What do you think?”

I did not tell her what I was thinking.