The Battle of the Bench

When you find the right partner in life, marriage can be a joyful union of best friends. It helps when you don’t take things too seriously and you can find the humor in the mundane and absurd. Sometimes, the most inane things can take on comical proportions when two people play off each other perfectly. Such is the case in the battle of the bench.

It all started over two years ago when my family moved to a new house. We had purposefully downsized to a smaller home because we had grown tired of the large yard and unused rooms in our old house and the infinite upkeep that it required. We found a delightfully right-sized townhouse that had no yard but sizable common areas that were maintained by the homeowners’ association. This change allowed us to spend our free time in more enjoyable ways (Yay! No more weekends of yard work!), but it also presented space challenges since the new house had less space.

Shoehorning our lives into the new house was less of an issue for us since we’re the opposite of pack rats, except for our son – he has inherited my mom’s penchant for keeping everything he lays his hands on. Nevertheless, we efficiently pruned our furniture and other belongings until we had the perfect balance in each room. The only room that looked even a little over-stuffed was the master bedroom because neither my wife nor I were willing to part with our suite of furniture, much less the glorious bed we called home for eight or so hours every night. We’d more likely give up one of the kids before we cast aside the siren call of that sweetly-plump, king-sized mattress.

We made the furniture fit in a room half the size of our former bedroom with enough space to move freely around the room without clipping our toes on the sharp, wooden edges our our bed posts. In fact, there was enough space to put a bench at the foot of bed so that I could sit down while putting on my shoes each morning. I suggested as much to my wife, but she deftly rebuffed my suggestion stating that there wasn’t enough room. I ignored her logic and pleaded my case, going as far to break out my measuring tape and miming how said bench would fit in said space. She couldn’t be convinced.

Failing at using the precision of measurement to persuade my wife to add a bench to our collection of bedroom furniture, I made a big deal of putting on my shoes each morning – from the floor. My histrionics reached epic proportions miming back pain or pretending that I was part of one of those Medi-Alert commercials where the protagonist had fallen and couldn’t get up. None of my bad acting swayed my wife. A bench was not in my future. As long as we stayed in that house, I’d be benchless in Seattle. I’d be lacing my shoes for eternity from our bedroom floor. Such conditions affronted my sense of self and condemned my manhood on some level I’m sure.

These antics went on for two years, and my wife would just smile each time I brought it up or politely ignore my inciting comments much like she’d ignore the kids when they were toddlers and had one of their implacable moments that thrived on attention. I felt defeated, deflated, but then we had to move again.

The circumstances of our cross-country move left me searching for our next home alone with only photographic or video reports back to my wife in Seattle. She had to rely on me to choose where we’d live, which meant I could chose a home with a master bedroom plenty big enough for a bench. I was unnaturally excited about the power I had. I’d get my bench. This much I knew. Each home I walked through required a long stop in the master bedroom to picture my new bench at the foot of our bed. I felt like the Grinch plotting my descent into Whoville except instead of taking things away, I was adding something.

I finally decided on a house, and after seeing the pictures and video, my wife agreed. I could feel the soft cushion of my bench already and we hadn’t moved in yet. As we moved our stuff into the house and settled each piece of furniture in its rightful place, I couldn’t help but smile when one of our sofas landed in the master bedroom. I finally had my bench – not only that, it was a significant upgrade to the original bench I had envisioned two years ago. As I settled into the sofa on that first morning in our new house to put on my shoes, I soaked in the victory. I felt like doing a lap around the bedroom with my arms raised in boastful pride. I had won the battle of the bench. I tried not to gloat, but I can’t help myself. It’s been a few months since we moved in, and I still bring it up. I’m lucky my wife has a great sense of humor (but I still won).

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