By Gwen Rockwood, newspaper columnist and mama of 3
I’ve learned a lesson this week, and here it is: Sometimes, it’s okay to lower your standards.
For the 26 years we’ve been married, I’ve told Tom that we would not become one of those couples who buy a monstrosity of a sofa no matter what “cool” things it could do. I refused to sacrifice beauty for bells and whistles because it shouldn’t be a choice. In a perfect world, all furniture buyers should get both.
But alas, we are far from a perfect world. And when Tom convinced me to go furniture shopping a few days after Christmas, I was in a weakened state. Worn out from all the shopping, wrapping, decorating and cooking, I just wanted to sit down and rest. 
I barely noticed that Tom and the salesman were leading me toward a sofa in the “home theatre” section of the store. They pointed, and I sat on a couch that looked like what you’d get if the Michelin Man mascot and a spaceship had a baby.
The salesman saw that my defenses were down because he quickly hit one of a zillion buttons which raised my weary feet and let me recline. Then he picked up a remote and pointed it toward a giant television across from the sofa. Suddenly, Tom Cruise was right in front of me in a fighter jet, streaking down the runway and lifting off into the endless blue sky of the “Top Gun” sequel.
I should’ve known it was a trap. I should’ve flown out of there even faster than Tom Cruise and his perfect teeth. But did I mention I was mentally and physically tired? So, I stayed for a minute, telling myself I’d indulge my husband’s curiosity about this less-than-stylish sofa. Then, we’d move on to more attractive options.
The salesman showed us how the sofa and TV connected through Bluetooth technology so we could hear the audio from the sofa’s surround-sound speakers. We could even feel the rumbling vibrations of fighter jets and explosions right under our seats. It felt like a roller coaster, minus the dizziness and nausea. I had to admit it was a little cool. Hideous yet cool.
There was also a spot to plug in headphones and two embedded charging stations for our iPhones, with no cords necessary. He said that when it was just the two of us on the sofa, we could flip down the center section and put a big bowl of popcorn right there between us on a shelf. And I really do like popcorn.
Then he revealed the hidden cupholders and lights. He showed me how the seats could be heated to low, medium, or high with the touch of a button. Then, he mentioned the heated massage function. My achy, middle-aged muscles liked the sound of that.
I glanced over at Tom, who could hardly believe I hadn’t bolted off the sofa the second I’d heard the word “cupholders.” The poor guy looked so happy, so hopeful. I decided to stay just a few minutes longer before bursting his bubble.
That was when the salesman came over and played his final card. He pushed a button, and I felt a magical pillow inflate ever so gently behind the small of my back. He lulled me into a brain-addled state of bliss with his luxurious lumbar support and dreams of buttered popcorn.
In the words of the great Kenny Loggins, I was on the “highway to the danger zone.” There I was, sandwiched between Tom Cruise and Tom Rockwood, and they both wanted me to say yes to the sofa.
Outnumbered and outgunned, I nodded and melted into the overstuffed rolls of the faux leather beast. While Tom filled out paperwork for the sale, I mentally rearranged our house so the spaceship sofa could be in the upstairs bonus room. I didn’t want it in the main living room where guests could see what the two Toms had talked me into during a moment of weakness.
I did the walk of shame back to our SUV in the parking lot. The sofa wouldn’t come in for 10 weeks, so I had a long time to think about what I’d done. Then last week, two delivery guys showed up at my door, ready to haul the thing upstairs to the room over our garage.
But you know what? Now that we’ve had a few days to cozy up to the bloated behemoth, I don’t even regret it. We’re too busy watching our shows, warming our buns, and eating our popcorn to care about appearances. I hope you’re happy, Tom Cruise, wherever you are. Because believe it or not, we are, too.
Gwen Rockwood is a syndicated freelance columnist. Email her at gwenrockwood5@gmail.com. Her book is available on Amazon.
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