The Heidelberg and the Ganges Dammed

Finally, life has returned to normal. I'm in my office, ordering food, planning to work a late night, while my wife goes shopping for furniture. And this weekend, I went kayaking in my new boat, got a little scared by the big waves, and considered borrowing money in order to purchase a couch. If only I'd managed to slip a few hip openers in here and there.

Borrowing money to buy a couch. Yes, I know. Ridiculous. But you should see this couch. And we are in love. With the couch. It's impossible to understand unless you have sat on the W. Schillig Heidelberg yourself. Until that happens, please refrain from judging. And I realize that this is what all those preachers and other know-everything-with-certainty people have been warning us (the United States) about. Namely, that if we allow gay marriage, well, it's a slippery slope. To couch love.

But the real world makes the union impossible. It's a class thing. The Heidelberg is quality German money. And well, I'm from Mississippi, grew up in a log cabin, and my grandmother lives in a single-wide trailer with a house built around it. Yes, yes, I know. That makes me real, down to earth, and I should revel in what wisdom I will someday gain from my exoteric approach to the finer things. But that doesn't eliminate her siren like call for my rear end. Quiet, but a deafening roar whenever I have the misfortune of sitting on another couch. We all have aristocratic airs we'd like to loose. And the Heidelberg is a fitting throne, a sensual symbol of esoteric belonging, to be one of the few who can exchange knowing glances about the calming comfort of s-spring frame suspension, enhanced by cushions of dueling foam densities and coiled spring core. A form that refuses torque. And skin, well, soft, inviting, and lasting.

But again, we are of different world. The salesman (an African citizen of the world with a design degree from a school in London) assured us that the Butterfly ultrasuede fabric could only be cut if deliberately attacked with a knife. He deigned to demonstrate. Amy cut him off at the word. Impossible. We believe you, just don't hurt the Heidelberg.

But we should have allowed it; in the end, like a tragic play, bodies would be laying around all over the place anyway. Our story could only end in tragedy. You see, the Heidelberg costs three thousand dollars, and that's not even with leather. There are times when grubbing social climbers like ourselves must just accept our fate and merely feign the power to buy finery. Probably such a moment is now. Even so, I'm afraid that she has us in her grip. Amy actually said outloud, while reaching out to me dramatically, "I love this couch. I could not live without it." She did not say, "I cannot live without it." That's what silly teenagers say when infatuated and it belies a lack of depth and an infatuation with the present moment, a time that quickly changes. No, she said, "I could not live without the Heidelberg." An entirely different matter, it suggests depth, and understanding of future consequences. This is Antigone time. And normally, I might tear along weighing possibilities, consequences, skipping along the surface of yuppie life like the Ganges. But this time, I sighed and only nodded, managing to add, "Oh my god," in a whisper.

Today's rule: to either purchase the Heidelberg or not, and be done with it.