The Chair Dilemma

My reading chair, a loyal old beast of a thing, finally gave out last week. Not dramatically — just a long, complaining creak as I sat, followed by a very final “thunk.” A funeral in slow motion. I stood up, tested the wobble, and said: “Well, that’s that.” Time for a new one. Easy, I thought. Ha.

I went to three stores. Sat in twelve chairs. Too firm. Too soft. One that felt perfect — until I saw the price. One that looked charming — until I sat in it and realized it was lying to me. A young salesman tried to sell me a “mid-century ergonomic experience.” I asked, “Does it squeak?” He blinked. I left.

By day three I’d narrowed it down: Chair A — elegant, with wooden arms and mustard upholstery. Chair B — soft, wide, like a friendly hug. My head said A. My knees said B. My heart said “Maybe the old chair wasn’t so bad?” But I knew better. And I had to choose. Not for comfort alone, but for the mood I wanted in my days.

I know how that sounds. But I looked down and realized I was wearing the exact greenish-brown shade of Chair B. Comfortable, warm, not trying to impress anyone. That was the mood. That was me. I sat in it one last time, felt the whole day melt into its cushions, and said: “You’re coming home.”

Now it lives by the window. I drink my morning coffee there. Read a chapter. Watch squirrels argue on the fence. It’s just furniture, yes — but it also quietly says: You deserve to sit well. And that, at 62, is something I no longer debate. A good chair, like a good day, doesn’t need to be stylish — just real.