Moving, part one.
Oh, God, what have I done?
The furniture I purchased is some nice, medium-quality stuff – much nicer than any other couch or table I’ve ever owned (though, to be fair, the only couches or tables that have been completely “mine” were rescued strays from end-of-year res hall closings). But really, Julie? You just got done having a heartfelt conversation with a friend about how you “don’t need fancy stuff” and that you were going to the thrift store to find a table.
I feel like a hypocrite. A hypocrite with a matching sofa and loveseat.
So I didn’t hit up the La-Z-Boy Furniture Gallery or anything. I just discovered that our nation observes Memorial Day by selling living room furniture in five-piece packages. Also, I am a salesman’s dream. He very nearly sold me on the “matching area rug” until I remembered that my apartment is carpeted.
Oh, I know what you’re thinking, because I’m thinking the same thing: Julie, you idiot. You completely fell for this guy’s sales pitch! You should know better. You went there to find a couch. One couch. Not a fifteen-piece leather reclining sectional with built-in cupholders (though, ooooh, that would be cool, wouldn’t it?). And you walked away with two rooms’ worth of shit. Seriously, Julie? You couldn’t just say “Nope, see this $150 couch? That’s all I want. Thank you and good day, sir!”
Yeah, well, it’s harder than it sounds.
And hey, I own a coffee table now. So there’s that.