I was looking for a sofa, perhaps a chesterfield if I could be so lucky. I definitely wasn’t willing to settle for a couch. But then… this. The last bit of bold floral upholstery in my life was a davenport thirty-plus years ago. Here’s a glimpse of it’s glory (along with a glorious 3-year-old me):
It seemed like a pretty inconsequential decision, really. We haven’t been in a rush to fill the house but after ten months it seemed like an awful waste that the biggest room in it was still half-empty and hardly used because it was so haphazardly furnished. A thrift store buy could fill the empty space, tide us over until “the one” came along.
So I was unprepared for the life-changing force, the unmistakable gravitational pull we introduced into the living room. I feel like perhaps there should have been a warning sign in the store: “This piece of furniture will result in decreased productivity. Massive reserves of willpower required to resist spending your entire life in these arms.”
I realize now it’s been more than seven years since I last had a piece of sofa-like furniture in my home. I’m making up for lost time. Tea-drinking, reading, writing, knitting, browsing… you name it, it’s better in the soft embrace of the davenport. From early morning to late night, any weakness in my guard means I now find myself in this corner of the room. Mostly sitting sideways, back perfectly supported by an arm, legs up and outstretched. You can’t do that on a futon.