I am seriously not kidding when I say that I have absolutely nothing to write about.
If you think I’m kidding, then let me confess that I just wrote an entire post about the fact that I washed the slipcovers on my couch this week.
In fact, the following is the post I just wrote and then, as I proofread it, caused me to fall into a deep sleep. I feel the need to include it as proof that I’m not exaggerating about how little I have to say.
Six years ago, I ordered a couch.
I had just been through the worst summer of my life, which involved a terrible miscarriage that had chewed me up and left me with a footlocker full of emotional issues and somehow I decided that a new couch would make things better.
Interestingly enough, the couch didn’t really help matters.
However, in the midst of all my hormonal weeping over fabric choices, I did have the presence of mind to order a couch with removable slipcovers because it seemed like a brilliant, practical choice in light of all the babies I was sure we were going to eventually have that would spit up all over it.
Yes the couch was expensive, but practicality doesn’t always come cheap. And I sold P on it by declaring that we’d have this couch until our kids took it off to college with them because we’d be able to wash all the slipcovers on a regular basis and keep it looking flawless.
So, on Monday, I washed the slipcovers for the first time.
In six years.
The problem was that somewhere along the way I became frightened of washing the slipcovers. What if they shrank? What if they dissolved? What if they were ruined forever?
But after a six year accumulation of baby spit up, Nilla Wafer crumbs and sticky, dirty Cheeto fingers, I decided it was time to face my fears.
I washed. I dried. I have a spotless couch with incredibly clean cushions.
Honestly, I will count it as one of the great highlights of my life. Or at least my week.
By the way, I was going to title that post “The Couch”.
Sometimes my life makes me sad.
***Edited to add that I’m not really sad. I mean, yes, I’m sad that my wordsmithing abilities have taken leave and all I could think to write about was my couch, but not sad in the traditional sense. I just didn’t want y’all feeling bad for me because it’s not like the heel broke off my favorite pair of shoes or anything tragic like that.