This week, as my gaze fell on my worn-out couches, it dawned on me that if I had to look at those two torn green leather monstrosities for one more day, I was going to gouge out my eyes. Maybe it’s rude of me to speak disrespectfully of couches that are probably older than I am, but they were truly a hideous eyesore—oversized, clumsy and about as comfortable to sit on as a frozen porcupine. We had bought them from the people who lived in the apartment before us, and judging from their wear and tear, I could easily imagine that their children, like mine, had probably used them as makeshift trampolines. When we moved the couches out, our dining room magically tripled in size. My husband was ecstatic about our new open space and invited his friends over for a little redecoration party. They made an event out of rearranging the furniture, and while I can’t tell you exactly what was done to my walls, I know from the fact that I am slightly deaf in one ear that power tools were involved. The whole reconstruction made me a little nervous, but I have to admit, by the time they were finished, the place looked pretty good. But I missed my couches.
Not those particular couches, obviously, but I craved a cozy spot where I could curl up with a magazine or have a good, long schmooze; I had learned the hard way that a hard kitchen chair just doesn’t cut it. I woke up the next morning with newfound determination. I was going to buy a couch. My husband humored me, and we made the rounds of several furniture stores. It was quite a learning experience for me. Never having paid attention to all the important features one can find in a couch, I turned out to be a quick study. I discovered that I liked the super-cushiony Italian leather. Reclining seats were, of course, non-negotiable, and did you know they make couches that swing? My ever-growing list of the features that my new sofa absolutely had to have began to resemble the dreams of a young girl entering the shidduch scene: tall, dark, handsome, brilliant, full-time learner, and the only child of extremely wealthy parents. And while I pride myself on being a relatively logical person, I must admit that the expectations I was building for my potential couch were spiraling slightly out of control. When we hit our third store, I laid eyes on the one. It was a thing of beauty: the color, the shape, the plush leather, and to seal the deal, it had the swinging mechanism!
Now, it may be relevant to note that I had a certain price in mind. And it was a pretty generous one because I wanted to get something really good. But when the salesman told us the price of the couch, I momentarily stopped breathing; it was approximately 12,000 times the price I had in mind. The salesman took one look at my face and then at my husband’s, and noting our matching expressions of horror (the way someone would look if you tried to sell him a $40,000 cup of milk), the guy realized he’d better say something. “Your wife has good taste,” he told my husband. “She picked the most expensive couch in the store.” My husband, instead of looking pleased to be bound for life to someone with such impeccable taste, was at that moment thinking how much wealthier he would have been had he married someone with lousy taste instead. I, meanwhile, was mentally calculating how many of our children we would have to homeschool to pay for the couch.
While trying to add up the numbers in my head, I remembered how bad I was at math and realized that my options were limited to two: I could negotiate with the salesman or rob a bank. Now, you may be wondering why I couldn’t have just picked one of the other couches in the store instead—which brings me back to the seminary girl with her “dream boy” wish list. It’s like showing her the perfect young man and then telling her that although he is not available, she can have a sloppy, slowwitted guy with poor hygiene who sings off-key. I was left with no other option but to negotiate. I started by suggesting helpful price markdowns; I threw around impressive legal-sounding terms like “gross, inflammatory price violations”; and I all but offered the guy my firstborn son if he would just give me a discount on the couch. But the man was like a rock and refused to budge.
After several hours of pleading, cajoling, and finally whipping out my phone to show him a picture of my firstborn son, he caved a little, but we were still very far from reaching a deal. By this time it was dark outside and the store was closing. The salesman, looking very much like he needed some painkillers and something strong to drink, told us to come back after the weekend (it was Thursday).I thought about the couch over Shabbos and ran my shopping experience by a few of my friends. None of them seemed shocked by the prices I mentioned, and they felt that a good couch was a very worthwhile investment. In fact, they confided, their own couches hadn’t cost much less.
At this point, I realized that my friends were either a lot wealthier than I had presumed or that they were all secretly homeschooling their children. Whatever the case, with their encouragement ringing in my ears, I spoke with my husband and we decided to go ahead and buy the couch. When we walked into the store on Motzaei Shabbos, we were greeted by the very same salesman, who was probably wondering why he hadn’t taken early retirement. Surprisingly, he agreed to drop the price a little more and meet us halfway. I can’t say that it was exactly affordable, but fortunately, I have a perfectly reasonable payment strategy in mind. I just hope they allow people to bring their own couches with them to prison because a big part of my financial plan involves robbing a bank.