Life unfolds

I had a wistful moment earlier this week when I dropped off my old futon frame at the thrift store. That old frame was nothing nice by now -- it was dilapidated, in fact, with coffee rings on the armrests. But it was the first piece of furniture I ever bought new, and it furnished the first apartment I rented on my own, after college. Giving it away felt like giving away a piece of my youth.

Futons seemed like a miracle to me when I bought that one, in 1992: cheap, simple, comfortable. But when Ereck and I moved into this place three years ago, the miraculous futon went into the basement, and there it sat.

Recently we had a purge: we resolved to rid ourselves of both of our futons, simultaneously. Ereck theorized that we had hung on to them as a kind of relationship insurance -- if things didn't work out with us, at least we'd still have beds to sleep on. So giving the futons to St. Vinnie's was, in some strange way, a kind of commitment ceremony.

Except my futon frame got cold feet. At first I couldn't find the peculiar, tiny bits of metal that hold everything together, and without them the frame is just so much useless pine. But in a frenzy of tidying I finally turned up the goods, and the frame left the house a complete package. I hope someone can use it.