Every once in a while, I have an experience with a piece of furniture that creates a lasting memory. Once it was an ottoman that I was stranded on for two hours playing a game of “the floor is lava” with an extremely committed and persistent four-year-old. Another time, it was a green corduroy chair where I sat in a girlfriend’s grandparents’ basement for three hours while they spoke only in French. One time, I had a particularly peculiar experience with a tilted coffee table that gave me the unique opportunity to buy an acquaintance a new living room rug.
Three years ago, I was visiting a friend in Montana, a place I hadn’t been before and have since frequented. It’s a beautiful place, and if you haven’t been, I highly suggest going. And I know how much you weigh my recommendations. Anyway, I was walking through the home of a friend of a friend when my left ankle gave way. I don’t know how it happened, but I think I know why it happened. The host offered me his hand and told me to take a seat while he grabbed some ice. The nearest seat was a reclining chaise, and while I hadn’t ever sat in one before, it had a familiar comfort that eased my nerves. I spent the next two hours sitting on there until we left, and honestly, I don’t think I was ready to go. I was so relaxed, so comfortable. To this day, every time my ankle gives out, I always think of that old reclining chaise. I probably always will.