My Big Comfy Chair

OK. Let me settle into this fine seat. I've been in my new old big tiny house for over a month and I finally succumbed, or finally broke through to wanting, getting, and relaxing in a big comfy chair. Ah. That wasn't hard. But it took more effort than I expected.

Listen to a lot of tiny house and small space owners and there'll usually be one item that luxuriates its way back into the confined spaces. For some of us, it is the big comfy chair. Ah. Let's see if I can type in it, too.

For the first few weeks in my tiny space, the greatest comforts came from establishing the simple necessities. Hot water? That took a while. Internet? Whew. Yes. Cell phone signal? It wasn't until this week that I finally found the best place to sit where the phone can see the tower, and any metal in the structure isn't getting in the way.

Storage unit management meant clearing out one and stuffing things into another. Boxes from Amazon and other online sellers cluttered my living spaces as I bought a tinier oven, a tinier stove, a smaller mower, and things that aren't available in this small city.

The eventual empty space was so welcome that I didn't want to intrude on it. For days I wallowed in walking room, a place to exercise, and space, I just need space. (Inside joke to Creature Comfort fans.)

But.

Unless I was standing or sleeping I was usually living in a director's chair that was gradually sagging. Or, was the table getting taller? Nah. Sag. It was not the sort of place to lean back and relax. 

I missed my big comfy chair. I missed my thirty-year-old IKEA chair that was my favorite for almost everything except desk work. Reading. Typing on a laptop. Sucking up photons from a Roku. It was in good enough shape that I was comfortable donating it, but there were some sentimental feelings best exited from my world; for some reason, my back really didn't like it anymore; and the chair didn't fold up. It was light; but it was one shape. It always took up the same amount of room.

I wanted a comfy chair because enough of the necessities had been arranged that it was time for a luxury, which had a feel of a necessity. I wanted a big comfy chair.

A friend lived aboard his boat. Boats don't have much space either. Boats that move also need furniture that can be shackled or anchored instead of bouncing off walls. He reminded me about the one piece of furniture that he had that wasn't built in. It wasn't just a big comfy chair. It was a red leather, upholstered, wing-back chair that looked like it belonged with a dozen brethren in an old-style British gentlemen's club. No noise. No interruptions. Newspapers, books, port and sherry, maybe pipes and cigars. Maybe butlers butlering discreetly. 

Pardon me as I do a quick inventory of my furniture. Yep. I was right. Except for the toilet, everything I can sit on or sleep on can somehow be folded or rolled. Directors chairs fold. My bed can become a couch. And... that is it. Or, that was it.

If I was going to add anything to this space it was going to have to fit through the door, fit me, and be readily moved out of the way when I want to exercise or launch into some larger project.

Oops. Just noticed my bar stool. It is folded up beside the door, though it may be destined for the storage unit for when I want to sit and think, or maybe just sit.

In classic fashion I started an internet search for big comfy chair. I no longer live near IKEA. Traditional furniture met too few of the criteria. I was frustrated, but not much. The topic was a chair. Libraries and cocktail lounges have them. Tiny house living sometimes means living parts of life somewhere else. (I'm continuing to search for an exercise space for practicing karate.)

No problem. There's plenty of work, and shopping, and exploring to do.

Fast forward to running errands in a local set of strip malls and find a sporting goods store. There, in the near center of the store, was a display of outdoor furniture. All foldable. Some familiar. I had one of those kinds of chairs a decade ago, but I left it outside where the Sun, or at least the Sun's UV rays, ate it. I could use it inside. About the only difference I could note was that this one was broader and had a larger load limit. Have we really gotten that much bigger? I'm bigger, and this has exceeded my size increase. Whatever sport this is for must not be aerobic. (And yes, I know it is for watching sports. If more people are watching rather than playing, then it makes sense that a sporting goods store sells furniture.)

I bought one. It fits, sort of. It folds up, sort of. It isn't optimal, but it is good enough.

I'm comfy. It's a recliner. That feels decadent. I can kick back and stretch out - as long as I've cleared the coat rack, kept away from the kitchen cabinets, and made sure the frame won't rotate down and crack a window. 

Hey, there are caveats. It also cost $69.95. For $70, about what many people will spend on dinner, I have a place I can lounge, for not much money, that isn't very intrusive, that doesn't require a separate room or changing clothes, so I can use public seating. 

And, evidently, I can type from it, too. There's no place for a mouse - but pardon the real-time interruption. What did I just realize? The chair from the sporting goods store comes with a snap-on table that has slots for a drink and a smartphone. Something new to explore later.