I’ve always believed the reclining chair to be among the uglier innovations the furniture world, second only to the bean bag chair perhaps. But a recent pedicure experience at the spa forced me to rethink my anti-Lazy-Boy stance. I was ushered in to a small, dimly lit room, soothed by the sound of water bubbling over smooth stones and the gentle tones of some ambient music (is that a Darbuka?). And there it was, the throne of leisure, an overstuffed, umber-toned, velour, reclining chair. I settled in. It was not what I expected. There were no cigarette burns in the arms. No smell of stale beer. No Dorritos crushed into the seams. It was comfortable. No, it was plush. Then the foot rest went up and I was horizontal, gazing at the Celotex, taking back every unkind word I’d ever directed at the innocent Lazy-Boy whose only wish was to serve a tired backside. An hour later, I lay there, my arms elevated on a fluffy bolster, my feet soaked and pumiced, my toenails sporting a fresh coat of Persimmon Sunrise, trying to figure out where I could put one of these in my house. Then it hits me. I’ve got just the spot. I’ve been meaning to get rid of that bean bag chair anyhow.
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