Our Inanimate Family Member

When we got married, my husband gave me this really incredible chair. It’s this monstrous blue microfiber thing that reclines, and is wide enough to fit two people—or, well, my husband and I—side-by-side. The microfiber is the stuff they were making way back before it was popular like, twenty-years ago. Ultra-soft, durable, and still looks brand new after you’ve cleaned it a bazillion times.

We love this chair. Even though it’s almost nineteen-years-old, and ceased to match our home décor, colors and style what feels like eons ago. It’s one of those things you can never get rid of. That one piece of furniture that you wouldn’t ever even consider putting in a garage sale or giving to goodwill. So every time we rearrange the furniture, it ends up in the den, or the spare bedroom—somewhere out of the way—where it can’t be seen.

But we still use it. When one of us is sick or has an injury, or surgery, or a special need that requires a comforting place to curl up, we drag out the big, blue chair. (I cannot count the nights I slept in that thing when I was pregnant and couldn’t get comfortable in my bed. Nor the nights I rocked my fussy babies to sleep in it.)

More than a piece of furniture, it’s almost an important part of our family.

Is it normal to consider a chair—a piece of furniture, an inanimate object—as part of a human family unit? Do you have something like this in your life? What is it?