Stephen Mejias

Kelli's never been too happy with my orange Ikea couch. After all, she has her opinions on what a couch should be. First and foremost, obviously, a couch should be comfortable. Aiding in the comfort of a couch, Kelli tells me, are things like arms and backrests and cushions made of soft fabric. All of these things work together to provide a soothing place for resting one's head and supporting one's legs after a long, tiring day in the office. My couch, however, lacks these things. To a certain degree, I'm proud of my couch for maintaining its individuality — its unwillingness to conform to society's standards of what a couch should offer and be. My couch is a rebel.

But, in the end, I just have to shake my head at couch and wonder: What the hell were you thinking, couch? Why, couch, why? Why have you no squishy pillows? Huh? Why no place for my sweetie's head to rest?

Up until yesterday, my orange Ikea couch sat about two feet from the back wall of my living room, about one foot away from the south wall, and another three feet from the north wall. This, to me, seemed to be the ideal placement. While it may have caused every visitor who ever entered my apartment to innocently ask, "Why don't you push the couch up against the back wall?", what these visitors obviously didn't understand was that to push the couch up against that back wall would mean destroying my sense of symmetry, control, and balance, thus forcing me into some sort of OCD fit.

I fought the natural urge to push couch against the back wall ever since the day couch arrived. Until:

Kelli asked, "Did you ever consider pushing the couch up against the back wall?"

So, last night, I left work a bit early so that I could make some changes at home before Kelli arrived. I moved some cables and interconnects, sealed a couple of loudspeaker cartons, relocated my plant, and tossed out some old magazines. And then:

I moved the couch
up against
the back wall.

To compensate for the sudden shift in symmetry and balance, I made fine adjustments to the placement of my small brown rug and loudspeakers. In addition, I neatened the many random piles of CDs that littered the floor, and I swept the dust that had been collecting beneath the couch.

Now that the couch was up against the back wall and shoved into the corner, bounded by two walls, I could place pillows in the south corner and create a place for resting one's head, making it altogether possible, and even appropriate, to kick one's legs up and stretch out in a way that was never before imaginable. Couch, look how you've grown!

I was surprised. Happily surprised. I had taken the plunge, offset the balance of things, done the unthinkable, fought against myself, and more: found that I liked it.

Kelli has this effect on me. This isn't just about the placement of a couch. Though I often fight change, and am quick to accept limitations and obvious discomforts, Kelli helps me see that I have the power to change things for the better, if only I would give up my false sense of security. Things don't have to be the way they are. I don’t have to settle. My love makes me want to be a better person, makes me want to create happiness and comfort. Who in their right mind wouldn't want happiness and comfort? Like Gnarls Barkley, sometimes I'm crazy.

I sat down on my newly-placed couch for a moment and listened to a bit of music. I smiled.

Added bonus: Kelli liked it, too. "Wow," she said, "It's great!" She made herself comfortable, back up against the pillows and legs lifted onto the seat. "The place looks really good like this. The whole space has opened up and become more inviting."

"I like it, too," I said. "I even think the stereo sounds better."

And at that, with a slightly amused look and glittering blue eyes, she gave me a wonderful hug. "It does sound better," she agreed.