Saturday, April 4, 2009

Stool Sample . . .

We've lived in our house for about 18 months (Joy and Ava have actually been here 19 months and I have been here 17 months) and Joy has been anxious to make the house "ours" since the day we arrived.

Life with Ava, school, work, family, fun, sleep, errands, chores, challenges and TV shows we truly adore watching make that difficult but - God love her - Joy has really put her proverbial nose to the proverbial grind the last few months and has really made this house spectacular. There are still lots of things she wants to do and I have no doubt she'll get them done and we'll have this place exactly as we want it by the time Ava is a teenager (give or take).

Joy is a person that really enjoys her home. Wants it to be warm and bright and stately and yet approachable. She wants everyone to feel comfortable. To be "at home" in our home - if that makes sense.

I'm not a "decor" person. I don't care about colors or fabrics or styles (our home, I'm told, is French-Country-Cottage-Chic but I have yet to ask what that even means). I don't want people to roll their eyes or feel awkward about my home but I don't truly care what they think of the place or if they want to stay just long enough to deliver our UPS package or if they want to spend weeks at a time under our care. It is what it is . . .

But - like with many of the things in our shared life - we (as a couple, so I can "we" speak here) tend to default to the person who is more gracious in any given environment so our home is all about comfort and making pepole comfortable and happy.

Enter Joy's latest purchase (and the point of this post) . . . our new kitchen table/island/work station. Wifey went out and hooked me up! She bought me a Boos Block to encourage my budding interest in cooking and making our small and sorta' dreadful kitchen something that feels right and that we can be proud of and make great meals in!

I was soooo excited! And then I got scared.

Island height work stations mean just one thing . . . stools. And stools mean just one thing . . . horrible and unspeakable discomfort and misery for fat people like me. Oh no! So - I tried to play it cool and sort of "felt Joy out" on her intentions for stools.

"Since ths is just a temporary solution in this kitchen I'll probably just find the cheapest stools I can," she casually stated.


So - I went to work Friday morning not really knowing what to expect when I got home. I was sure that it would be "okay" but I was not looking forward to it. I would have to sit on a stool - my large, bulging butt hanging off every side of the circular pedestal atop the thin and surely rickety legs.

I walked in the door.

Deep breath.

"They look (LOOK!) great," I faked.

"Have a seat," Joy implored.

And I did. I sat down. On the stool. My butt FIT on the seat. No drooping or hanging or oozing of the cheeks. No discomfort. I sat. And sat. And sat. Didn't shift my weight. Talked to Ava. Talked to Joy. Enjoyed a glass of water. Just sat. Chatted. Laughed.

I was sure these "ah-ha" moments of post surgery life were long over . That the journey had ended.

Then I sat on a stool and had myself a moment. A moment of comfort. A moment of being at home in my home.

Wifey knows exactly what she is doing, once again.

Smart woman. Wonderful woman!

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