I bought a couch.
It's not a plush couch - you know, the kind that swallows you when you sit down. It's moderately comfortable, and I can move the chaise part from side to side at my leisure (which I already have done). It fits the smaller space in my apartment, but it is actually bigger than I remember it being when I saw it and sat on it in the outlet showroom.
More limiting than the space, though, is the fact that I am a short woman. Barely reaching five-foot-two, and probably shrinking with loss of bone density as I age, shopping for a couch has been an interesting experience. At the furniture store, there were several other people there test-driving couches. A tall couple seemed to gravitate toward the same couches as did I. I'd watch them sink into couches, ohhhh and ahhhh, then stand up quickly to try another couch. Me? I'd sit down, sink further, and my feet would be dangling in the air as if I were Edith Ann in her over-sized rocking chair.
I am pleased to report that my feet actually touch the floor while I sit on my new couch. As of this writing, I've only owned it for four hours, so we're both still in our honeymoon phase, but we seem to get along fairly well. Or, in furniture speak, sofa, so good.
