Gone to Ass Heaven

On Wednesday, I ordered a new chair for my studio.

There were three in the studio already: two ergonomic backless kneeler chairs (one of which I got at a yard sale for a dollar and the other of which I simply wore out) and a low saddle rack with an old leather saddle on it. Three chairs, two work areas. The fact is that I could no longer work for long in any of those seating arrangements because my backside simply went on strike and said, "No more abuse for this ass. From now on it's got to be cushioned, or I will give you such a pain..." And it did. Then it recruited my knees to join the agony so that even with an extra pillow, the ergo-chairs were dreadful. The saddle collected two folded blankets and two plastic sheets of big bubble wrap before I could bear to sit on it for an hour, which is nothing if you're working on a story.

I tore apart the better ergo-chair with an eye to reupholstering it. I know I'll get around to finishing that some day. But finding that I was actually avoiding working in the studio (a disaster) sent me to Staples for a special order chair.

I knew the one I wanted; the same chair I've wanted all my life. (Well, at least all that part of my life during which I've had a studio.) A variable-height stool on casters, like the kind doctors use. Oh, yeah. With one of those, you can brace your feet against the ground and move from project to project; you can tear into the studio at top speed with an inspiration, step over the beast and sit while your hands are already getting out the implements; and even when you've just been screwing off playing Free Cell or Spider Solitaire, you can celebrate each victory with a quick spin. No arms on the chair to bash elbows, no designed for comfort formed seat (they always cut off my circulation in my legs and stress my back) and no back to obstruct my view of the dogs that invariably come in and lie down near the chair. I was grinning like a kid at Christmas while I talked to the sales associate about my special order, and went home clutching the receipt gleefully, anticipating that in about a week, my chair would arrive.

Yesterday afternoon the dogs went nuts, slamming against the door and bellowing murder at some fool who rang the doorbell. Cursing under my breath about people who go door to door, I went to the porch to see who was disturbing the peace. There was no one on the porch, just a huge box. In astonishment I stared at the label. The chair I had ordered the day before had already arrived.

Five minutes later it was assembled, and both Ass and Knees gave it a Thumbs Up.

Back to work, with pleasure.