Idle Musings on a Barcalounger

First: Yes, my title is misleading seeing as I do not presently own a Barcalounger — hence, I am not technically on a Barcalounger, musing. But I am definitely lusting after one — ergo, said Barcalounger is the content of my musings. And "Musings on" has such a nice ring. (Ah, clarity.)

Now, the Blog: You might fairly ask, how is lusting after a chair that swivels and reclines (allowing its inhabitant to sleep, perhaps to dream) worthy of a Spirituality & Health blog? Well, I'm not sure it is. But it's what I've been thinking about this week — specifically the Sonnet model in a deep burgundy — so . . .

Edward Readicker-Henderson, one of my favorite S&H authors, recently wrote a piece called "Getting Rid of Stuff" where he suggests you throw out an item or two for every new thing you bring into your home. In my case, this would be a necessity if I get a Barcalounger because I live in two rooms. And the item I would have to throw out is sitting right behind me as I type, so I'll have to do this in a whisper:

The item I would junk is a 25+-year-old recliner (see photo) who has seen better days. I have re-covered her several times, and the last store-bought garment seems to inhibit her ability to recline. But underneath it, her upholstery is split and gaffer-taped so I cannot sit on her naked — her, not me … or come to think of it, me too, as I reckon sitting naked on gaffer tape might not be pleasant.

End of whispering.

I feel a little guilty for whispering, but because I fancy myself a spiritual person, I think it's important not to offend my furniture — particularly because we know from The Secret how powerful my thoughts are, and my chair does not deserve my negativity. After all, she has cuddled me like a womb in times of grief, patiently housed numerous animals in her squooshy lap, had all manner of things dropped and splashed on her, and still she stays in one piece. I love my chair . . . but I really, really want a Barcalounger.

A Barcalounger is not cheap, particularly when you live in a four-flight, killer walk-up in New York City where you have to tip somebody 200 bucks to get it in and another chair out through two doorways not designed for the transit of any-sized furniture.

In an attempt to be frugal, I looked at discount recliners, but the delivery directions screamed that they'd drop them off on the street and no-how, no-way was anybody lugging anything up stairs!

Then I found an online store that sells this gorgeous ergonomic recliner in the right color for my decor, but no-way, no-how would that fit through my doorway.

As I said, I'm a spiritual person deeply concerned about sustainability, so I thought, why not buy locally? Yesterday I went to my neighborhood furniture and bedding store where I bought my Stearns and Foster mattress about a hundred years ago (please don't tell anybody I'm sleeping on an old mattress). Since I last shopped there, the guy in charge has changed from a low-key little Jewish man who felt like my grandfather to a low-key little Asian guy who feels like my pal. He left me alone to look through the Barcalounger catalog and fabric swatches, then said, sure, think about it as long as I wanted, and sure, the delivery guy would do all the lugging I wanted as long as I tipped.

I was so grateful for his manner and assurance and overall niceness that I wanted to tip well and pay whatever he was charging. It felt right to give somebody a lot of money for niceness and hard work. . . . which brings me to the spiritual aspect. (Ah, I knew there had to be one.)

What if we had an economy where worth was based on the value of hard work and kindness? Talk about change! Just think of it: Really nice babysitters and homecare workers would be some of the highest paid workers. My angelic dental hygienist would make more than my dentist. Really nice plumbers would be billionaires. Neurosurgeons could still make a good living, provided they didn't act like a**holes who think they're God. And my Barcalounger delivery guy could retire. What a world, what a world!

I warned you — it's just idle musing . . .