This was my Mother's Day Gift.
I love it. Those wooden slats represent the promise of a Lounge Chair Lady's life.
Women who have lounge chairs read the latest issue of Elle Magazine while letting their toe nail polish dry. They sip pink lemonade out of plastic cups that look like they're glass cups and mosquitoes don't pester them and the sun never overheats their iPhones. Women in lounge chairs don't have children. Or, they do have children, but they're wildly independent. Women in lounge chairs have something in the oven. It smells so good, you can smell it from the lounge chair. Their cordless house phones get perfect reception from their lounge chairs, so they don't have to get up to answer calls. While they lay with their feet up, someone else puts away the breakfast dishes and folds the towels.
I bought it a big fluffy white cushion. While the saleslady was ringing it up I pretended to myself that I am a person who can keep cushions white. I chose to suppress my knowledge of impending muddy shoes, fruit punch splatters, and melty ice pops. "Not on my chair," I thought while she swiped my debit card. "I'm a Lounge Chair Lady now."
This week I started a stack of "things to read when I'm in my lounge chair." I cut out a recipe of a fruit smoothie I want to drink while I'm in my lounge chair. I made a mental list of shows I'm going to watch on an iPad in the lounge chair.
I have been the owner of this coveted lounge chair for one whole week. I have laid on it once. It was dark out, but those 3 minutes were really nice.
That's not to say I don't use my new lounge chair. Quite the contrary. I had hoped to use it to sip Chablis in silence, but I am not a Lounge Chair Lady. Yet. Turns out, I now have a place to sit while applying sunscreen to little boys' noses. I can be comfortable while I pull ticks off my dog's rear end. We finally have the perfect spot to set the soccer ball during pee breaks. Also, it's a perfect pirate ship.
One day, in the not too distant future, I'll fall asleep on that lounge chair and there will be no one to wake me up by poking me in the eyeballs. My boys will realize I can't play soccer. They'll lose the taste for fruit punch. And when that day happens - when I evolve into a Lounge Chair Lady - my heart will ache for the drips of an ice pop.