I used to be befuddled as to why on earth college girls ecstatically smooched Bob Barker as if he were a game-show god when they only had won a lousy living-room ensemble. Perhaps I could muster up a quick hug if I'd played Plinko for some cold, hard cash or putted my way to a brand-new Jeep. Gosh, I'd even take a deluxe Ping-Pong table for hours of good, clean basement-room fun. But the thought of competing against herds of hyper geriatrics only to discover that I won a not-so-lovely couch and matching loveseat made me nauseous. Surely I'd yearn to grab Bob's little microphone, crack it over his silver pompadour haircut, and give "his beauties" a few good hits too. At least that was how I used to feel.
Ever since my friends and I signed our apartment lease last October, we forsook the polyester Bob Barker look and instead feverishly flipped through the Pottery Barn catalogue in search of a couch. I felt like some pathetic big-city yuppie that wanted the identical den of all yuppie friends (page 39, the rustic beach house look). On Saturday mornings we could sport worn-out oxfords and khakis and lounge around on Nantucket red-twill couches. A whitewashed table covered with an array of Natural Light cans and Gatorade bottles would be atop a natural-colored sea-grass rug. It'd all be very Ralph-Lauren-by-the-Sea-meets hung-over-University-students. I loved it.
It's hard to remember the exact moment when I came back to financial reality. It may have been the day I maxed out my credit card while trying to buy some Dimetapp at CVS. Or, perhaps it was when I began to post date all checks to July since my balance was a whopping $1.93. Maybe it was the afternoon I rode down the escalator at Crate and Barrel that I saw my apartment's doomed future atop a summer sale display of foldable beach chairs. I pictured the four of us sitting on the canvas seats, propping our feet up on an extra-large Igloo cooler that was serving as the coffee table. "Hey," I'd claim to company, "It saves trips to the fridge," and then hand them an ice-cold can with a sprinkle of sand around the rim for that authentic beachy flavor.
Rattled by my vision, one of my roommates answered a "For Sale" ad describing a low-priced, comfortable couch. "Forget it," she informed me a week later, "It's velvet." I commended her excellent discrepancy, afraid that such a sofa would also entail a pea-green shag rug, lava lamps and beaded doorways to complete the decor. For full effect we'd probably only let in guys with pimpy sunglasses, or who had plenty of MoJo to go around.
During another discouraging trip to Pottery Barn I spotted affordable striped canvas floor pillows, described as "great extra seating in front of the television." Extra seating wasn't exactly our main concern. However, the jumbo pillows were very couch-like, and I envisioned heaps of them scattered across the room. It would be the inside of the magic bottle look from I Dream of Jeannie - an environment that seemed conducive to relaxation. Hey, Jeannie was wild about it. Furthermore, I reasoned that we could have sushi for dinner, since Japanese tables are traditionally very close to the floor.
While lazing around at home one night in early June, with the couch controversy still looming, my mom suggested we take the one from our den. She'd been hinting at getting rid of it since about 1990, but talk about feeling too at home in my apartment. Why didn't she just also throw in the duck and sailboat prints? We might as well enlarge and display the photos of me when I was five, frolicking on the beach in a falling-off seersucker bikini and a fogged-up snorkel mask.
Turns out that we did ship the couch all the way from Connecticut to Charlottesville. It's one of those gray '80s L-shaped numbers - very reminiscent of what the St. Elmo's Fire crew would have had in their college apartment, before they all graduated and got screwed up. It's so comfy though, a virtual black hole, and I often have the uncontrollable urge to flip up my collar and spend afternoons watching "Ferris Bueller's Day Off." Even the guys compliment it, and beverage stains are always welcome. My mother is thrilled that she's now couchless and finally has an excuse to redecorate. As for my dad, well he's beachin' it in the den after work on a foldout lawn chair, reading the Sports page and waiting for the new furniture to arrive. They've chosen the seaside collection from Pottery Barn - just what I always wanted.
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