Finally. After months of hardship on a plastic chair (the light blue-grey kind found in cheap restaurants), my tush has found rest in an unclaimed typist’s chair.
My new workplace chair is blue and black. The backrest is covered in bright blue fabric, while the black seat is made from what looks like mock leather. (I didn’t examine it too closely—you never know what people have done while on their chairs.) To be honest, it’s a rather strange sight—like one of those sorry rejects found in second-hand furniture shops, waiting for a sympathetic soul to bring it home. Maybe we were meant to be.
It used to belong to Bryan, but since he quit and the new owner thought it a tad too noisy, she opted instead for a silent plastic chair, leaving this one abandoned in a corner. Stumbling upon it was like getting together with an old friend. I would choose its occasional creaks and tantrums over hard, unwelcoming plastic anytime.
It can’t grow or shrink according to my moods, but at least it’s rather comfortable. Stuck on the short side, I’ve added a cushion to the seat. Built to be caring and considerate, it’s even got armrests for the weary limbs, wheels to spin your perspectives in motion, and a wide berth for the generously girthed. It’s wonderful.
Another colleague tried to claim it, but he was too late—the seat was already starting to bear my shape and smell. Like a gentleman, he acquiesced. He’s got a roller chair anyway—without a backrest—but still, that’s better than the plastic stuff I had.
For the past two days since I adopted it, life has been happier. The sun shines down brighter and I’ve even been feeling rather generous, buying a few kind colleagues lunch. Finally, maybe, I can do some work in the office without changing positions every three minutes; crossing and uncrossing my legs, standing up, sitting down again, etc. After all, nine to ten hours on a plastic chair can be hell; a surefire way of getting pins and needles, backaches and decorated thighs.
I like my new chair.