When I was young, my neighbors had a wicker chair. It was so cool. It was the best chair ever. I wanted that chair SO BAD. I couldn’t wait to become a grownup so I could buy my very own wicker chair.
(For some reason, my parents didn’t want one.)
That wicker chair sat in my neighbors’ living room like some grand, magnificent creature. A veritable peacock among chairs! Their couch and recliner practically curdled up in envy.
Oh, how I wanted a wicker chair. In fact, ALL the wicker chairs!
“Can I sit on it?” I asked my neighbors, my greedy little eyes absorbing all the beauty of that wondrous seating apparatus.
“Oh, God, no,” they said.
My heart broke a little that day, but I burned with a new resolve: To save up all the moneys and buy my own wicker chair and then I would put it in our living room and maybe watch a little TV while sitting in it, but mostly just look cool and have my family envy me.
“Sure, honey,” said my mother in a voice that didn’t sound particularly envious, but probably she was just hiding it.
And the day finally came. I saved up ten whole dollars, and she agreed to take me to the import store. And there — lo and behold — was a wicker chair. Maybe not as awe-inspiring as my neighbors’, but still.
It was, indeed, out of my price range, but I figured I could talk my mother into spotting me the rest of the money. And so I decided to take a test sit.
Now, mind you, I was not a particularly pudgy child. In fact, most people would have described me as “underweight,” once they got tired of using the word “scrawny.”
So I sat in the chair of my dreams.
“Crunch,” it said.
“Quick, let’s run,” my mother said.
And that’s the story of why I still don’t have a wicker chair.