Thursday, May 22, 2014
You might notice I no longer sit while covering sporting events.
I used to. But I donít anymore because I lost my Big Manís Lawn Chair.
It was a good chair. A loyal chair. My chair.
A big manís best friend, even the name said so.
The label said, Big Manís Chair, $34.95, the spring of 1999. Nothing on this earth, neither living, inanimate or manmade has come in such close proximity with my backside more often than my Big Manís Chair.
More than a decade of loyal and supportive service. While all lawn chairs may have given some, this one gave all.
My Big Manís Chair punched its ticket.
In a heartbeat it was all over.
Just like that the damage done.
A broken leg, a clean break all the way through, yet it stayed the course, held up the load as always, eternally faithful, despite any personal agony it might have suffered, until I could regain my balance and move out of harmís way.
The agonyÖ must have been staggering.
It was a good chair indeed. It deserved better than to end up in a beach condo trash dumpster.
I bought the chair for a specific reason. I am a Big Man and I needed a Big Manís Chair.
Back in the day lawn chairs and I didnít get along too well, especially the cheap, flimsy, plastic variety.
We mixed like a Dixie Cup and the sole of a size 14EEE shoe.
I knew Iíd put on a few pounds, but I didnít think things were this bad.
The first time, trying to sit in one of those plastic patio chairs, it snapped, crackled and popped like a bowl of Rice Krispies and when I stood up I left behind what looked like a plate of spaghetti.
I cracked toilet seats Ė tell me thatís not embarrassing.
When I stood up, some chairs stood up with me.
I know you only have one chance to leave a good first impression, but I didnít know that applied when leaning against the hood of oneís car. Try explaining that dent away.
That mustíve been one ginormous moth.
I realized I had a problem when I sat in the standard regular lawn chair I owned at the time and it flattened beneath my girth. If a lawn chair could scream right then, as my Size-48 fanny hovered ominously above like the asteroid poised to wipe out all life on Earth in the movie Armageddon, it would have.
There I sat, on the ground, with this flattened lawn chair beneath me, trying to pretend this was how chairs were supposed to work in the first place.
My Big Manís Chair, on the other hand, was like a best friend. It came with extra wide wooden armrests.
The armrests came with both a cup holder Ė extra large of course, and a second convenient holder for snacks and such.
It stayed loyal and true through to the very end, and as I watched the trash truck empty the dumpsterís contents, I caught one final glimpse of my Big Manís Chair going off to that big trash heap in the sky.
You were a good chair, a good and loyal friend.
Well done, Big Manís Chair, well done.
Berkeley Independent is pleased to offer readers the enhanced ability to comment on stories. We expect our readers to engage in lively, yet civil discourse. We do not edit user submitted statements and we cannot promise that readers will not occasionally find offensive or inaccurate comments posted in the comments area. Responsibility for the statements posted lies with the person submitting the comment, not Berkeley Independent.