I live with my parents. I can hear you right now thinking,
“That poor girl. At her age?”
Please, please, please do not pity me. It is faaaaaabulous. First of all Bil and Shelly are good company. I pay them rent because I’d rather give it to them than a landlord or roommate I can’t stand. Sure, it’s a little crowded at times (stuff is our “issue”) but they feed me, give me a little peace and in return, I try and be a good adult daughter and pitch in wherever I can. The food is plentiful and sometimes it’s just good to be here. There’s something nice about being at an age where you care for your parents when they’re feeling under the weather and they do the same for you. It’s a short time frame but if you’re lucky enough to experience it, it makes your bond stronger.
Anyway, Bil has an eye for furniture which he’s passed right down to me (Bertoia diamond obsession here). Around 1986, Bil purchased two Wassily chairs. Toddler Aja, immediately saw the appeal of the geometry of leather and metal. Recently the two big comfy living room chairs (31 years of naps taken, books read, conversations had in those old chairs) were sent off to a workshop to be rebuilt and reupholstered. The Wassily chairs were moved up from the basement. I watched my Dad attempt to get comfortable several times before finally swinging his legs over the side and saying with a laugh,
“The thing with these chairs is that you can’t think of them as too precious. You gotta make ’em your own, otherwise you’ll never get comfortable.”
He is so right, yet again.