Where Is My Mind?

There's something about a furniture store that turns Brandon and me into amnesiacs. A couple weekends ago, after much consideration, this is what we settled on: a tangerine leather couch with white whip-stitching and two ice-blue recliners. How much would the microsuede cost on the chairs? we asked. How long will it take to deliver? And, also, if you find a sense of reality lying around the store here, would you mind sending it to us? Because it's probably ours.

We came home and remembered about that child and those two dogs and non-leather-lifestyle we have.

We need some new furniture. We've needed it for years, but you know how broken things just become invisible after a while? And if you put a blanket over them, it's somehow okay? And then when you go shopping, you lose your mind, either with the tangerine couch, or with this sense that nothing is right, that furniture makers have somehow become desperately stupid and/or greedy in the years since you were last in the market for a new couch?

That's where I'm calling from, the unmarked territory between Who You Are and Wouldn't It Be Nice to Have.