Life happens: Let's just table the issue, shall we?
For years, my husband and I have harbored a shameful secret. A secret so hideous, so horrifying, so wholly conducive to alliteration, we have hardly dared to even whisper it out loud.
And the worst part is we have carried this secret with us from state to state, apartment to apartment, every time we move, from Ohio to Texas to, now, Boston. Each time, with each new set of friends and colleagues, our pain and embarrassment only growing as we again try and miserably fail to hide this, this abomination from their innocent eyes.
This shame has only increased ever since we got married and became somewhat upstanding citizens (hunchbacked citizens). I mean, we pay taxes (occasionally), for crying out loud.
We fully intend to register to vote someday probably before we die. Someday, we might even be parents, once Child Protective Services takes us off their "Do Not Let These People Procreate Under Any Circumstances Ever list."
And yet, here we are. Two grown adults, living in our very own house that is "technically" owned by our landlord, and without a single surface to eat on or a chair to sit on that is not of the office variety.
Yes, my friends, my husband and I have never owned a set of table and chairs. For the past, oh, eight years or so, ever since we met, we have been reduced to eating on the couch like a pair of, of animals (or frat guys, same difference).
Now, you're probably thinking, "How in the world do two grown adults go without a table and chairs for eight, long years!?!" Of course, for all I know, you could be thinking, "Cheese may just be the world's most perfect food." And I'd have to agree with you there. But for the sake of continuity, let's assume you're thinking the former.
It's not like we didn't try. We always meant to get an actual dining room set. But other, more pressing financial matters got in the way, such as paying the vet approximately $3 million because our dumb dog tried to chew his own tail off and the fact that we couldn't live another day without owning "Rock Band 2."
Although, one time, we did get as far as purchasing a second-hand table. Which we had for years. But since we had no chairs to go with it, it ended up turning into "The Giant Shelf of Random Items We Were Too Lazy to Put Away." And then, there was the winter we actually used our patio furniture as our "official" indoor table and chairs, which ended after the Great Thanksgiving Collapse of '09.
We also tried to go all bohemian a few times, making people sit on pillows on the floor as they ate off the coffee table, but that stopped once I hit 30 and the process of getting up off the floor started to resemble one of those bugs that gets caught on its back and can't right itself.
And then, a miracle happened. Like a deus ex machina plot twist (yeah, who didn't pay attention in English class now, Professor Greenberg?) the hand of God himself came down from the heavens and plopped a beautiful, dark wood six-seater with red velvet chairs right in our dining room.
Or, to be more specific, our friend was moving to Chicago and said "Hey, you want this guy?"
And we did want that guy. Oh, how we wanted that guy. Finally! A place to have a nice, intimate dinner! A place for guests to actually sit and eat without our aforementioned dumb dog breathing right in their face!
A place to whatever else since I need a third example thanks to that annoying "Rule of Three" writing principle.
I have to tell you, it has completely changed our lives. All two times we have used it in the past three months.
We are now, officially civilized.
Aprill Brandon is a columnist for the Advocate. Her column runs every two weeks in the Your Life section. Comment on this story at VictoriaAdvocate.com.