We bought a couch a few weeks ago, but you aren’t allowed to
sit on it, so don’t ask.
When I say, “We bought a couch,” I really mean my wife told
me we needed a new couch, which I disagreed with. Then she took me to Macy’s Gold-Plated
Furniture Palace, which I protested. Then she told me which couch we were
buying, which I balked at. Then she told me to pay the guy at the register,
which I did, because I don’t want to sleep on the old couch, and $58,000 seemed
like a very reasonable price.
When we arrived at Macy’s Fine and Extravagant Furnishings, Ann,
our well-dressed furniture sales professional, gave us her card. She’s in the
Macy’s Million Dollar Club. I’m guessing if she was a millionaire she wouldn’t
be selling furniture on Saturdays, so I have to assume that means she has sold
over a million dollars’ worth of furniture. At these prices, that was probably
accomplished on a three-day weekend.
Ann was really big on selling us a protection plan to go
with our new couch. They had structure protection plans, accident protection
plans, and of course, the all-encompassing premium protection plan. I inquired
about the accident protection plans, but it turns out they only cover the
couch, not the kids jumping off the couch. They were, however, perfectly
willing to insure my couch against all manner of stains* and breakage** for a
full seven years.
* Excludes general soiling, perspiration, body oils,
accumulated stains, or any stain caused by a human, animal, mineral, vegetable,
sports drink, child, blood, blood relative, houseguest, or in-law.
** Excludes breakage.
The cost for this wonderful, all-encompassing insurance? A
mere quarter of the price of the couch itself.
The glossy insurance brochure was very compelling. The
picture on the front suggested that if I purchased the premium protection plan,
I would be able to wear a tuxedo and relax at a jaunty angle on my new couch,
while sipping a martini with a devil-may-care grin and perfect hair, staring
into the eyes of my smokin’ hot wife/girlfriend/date/neighbor/nanny/au pair,
who would perch herself shoeless, in her designer dress and diamond necklaces,
on my luxurious new piece of furniture, right next to a sterling silver tray
holding a shaker full of more martinis and a decorative glass bowl full of
garnish olives.
I resisted that clever piece of marketing. My wife is smokin’ hot, but the only time we are
on our couch is when we’re in our pajamas, I only drink beer, I don’t relax at
jaunty angles, I don’t have any hair, and we don’t have a sterling silver tray,
diamond necklaces, designer dresses, a tuxedo, an au pair, or large martini
olives.
Be that all as it may, my wife actually wanted to buy the
protection plan. That was where I put my foot down.
Seven-year couch insurance is worthless to me. I can
personally attest to the fact that my wife will want to buy a new couch within a
maximum of four to five years, and she will start to disparage the current couch
as being “old” within three years. Why would I want to insure it four years
longer than she’s going to care about it? Right around the time I’m just
getting comfortable with a piece of furniture, she’s already wanted to throw it
out for two years. Long-term furniture insurance just makes no financial sense
for us.
“But if you don’t use the protection plan in the seven-year
coverage period, the money you paid for it will become a credit at our store.”
What the hell kind of sense does that make? I’m hoping that I don’t need to use it, so
you’re asking me to hope that I just parked a bunch of money with you
interest-free for seven years that I only get to use to buy a replacement
couch? And I don’t want to give my wife a reason to come back here! This place
is expensive! Also, in order to think that was a good deal, I’d have to believe
that you’ll be around in seven years. Every time I drive by this building it
has a new name on it. In fact, I’m pretty sure we purchased our last couch here
three years ago when this was Bob’s Furniture Barn.
Well, the couch arrived a few days ago, and it looks great
in our family room. We might have to rename that room, however, since the
family is no longer allowed in there.
The kids have yet to sit on it, and have been threatened
with their very lives if they ever so much as look in the general direction of
the new couch while holding food or drink. I am not allowed to drop onto it
from a height greater than eight inches above the cushions, for fear of
unwarranted structural damage, seam splittage, or cushion warpage.
My wife is usually as logical as a woman with new furniture
can be, yet in this case, the existence and availability of a seven-year
warranty has completely warped her mind. The fact that we didn’t buy it now
means that immediate harm will come to our poor, unprotected new piece of
furniture.
I have reminded her several times that we have owned
approximately fifteen other couches over the last twelve years, and not one of
them was ever structurally damaged or stained in any way. In fact, we would
still have the first one if it was up to me, and it would still be in perfect
condition, and we would be able to send the kids to college.
She just tells me to shut up and get off the new couch.
I think I’ll go have a beer on the old couch in my pajamas.
See you soon,
-Smidge
Copyright © 2015 Marc Schmatjen
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