When my husband Zach and I bought our home, the previous owners left behind a brownish-greenish-colored couch.
No offense whatsoever to the prior owners who are absolutely wonderful people, but I detested this couch.
I
didn't like the color, fabric, or size. It felt too small to stretch out and snuggle. Yet somehow, simultaneously, it also felt awkwardly bulky and clunky in our living room.
I complained about this brownish-greenish couch constantly, to the point where Zach pleaded, "No more about the couch. Not tonight."
It's worth noting that I was about
nine months pregnant at the time. (Hormones may have played a role in my agitation!)
Finally, I said to Zach, "That couch has got to go and it needs to be gone by the end of today. I don't care how. I just need it gone. Please. I beg of you." With a tone not unlike a mafia kingpin, I added darkly, "Either you handle it or I will."
He didn't
like the couch either, but was very reluctant to let it go.
"But if we get rid of it, we won't have a couch!" he said, "Where will we sit?"
Because we live on a remote island, shipping usually takes a long time. Zach pointed out that it might be weeks, even months, before we could get a new couch delivered.
I told him, "It's okay if we don't have a couch for a while. I'd rather have empty space."
He knew better than to argue with a woman with a stomach the size of a State Fair prize-winning watermelon.
When I got home that evening, it was gone.
And then, we had space.
Space to roll out a yoga mat and breathe.
Space to sit on the floor and see the room from a new perspective.
Space to rearrange other pieces of furniture and create a new atmosphere.
Space to think about, if we got a new couch, what kind do we really want?
Space for something new and better to arrive.
