Leather chair prompts fear of PETA protest

When I say “We,” I mean my wife picked it out and told me we were buying a new chair for our bedroom.

Wife: We’re buying a new chair for our bedroom.

Me: Why?

Wife: Because.

Me: I see.

I really didn’t see.

Seriously, we are in week 27 of a major redo of three upstairs bedrooms and, because of that, I can’t currently see the furniture in our bedroom. So I didn’t understand why we needed a new chair.

“Since we can’t see our current furniture, why don’t we just say we bought a chair?” I asked my wife.

Basically, what my wife said was for me to put a sock in it. So I did. Not literally, that would be stupid. But I dropped my chair objection.

Well, until my wife told me that we’re buying a leather chair for our bedroom. I’m uneasy with leather furniture. I don’t exactly come from leather furniture people. I have six brothers and sisters. In my family, having leather furniture would have made as much sense as a family of Labrador retrievers having furniture made of squirrels.

I’m always afraid I will slide off leather furniture. Plus, I’m not sure how, exactly, they make leather. If they make it the way I think they do, I’m afraid somebody from PETA would eventually knock on our door if we owned leather furniture. At the very least, I worry that those cows from the Chick-Fil-A commercials will picket our house.

My wife, however, does come from leather furniture people. I’m not saying my wife’s family actually had leather furniture. I’m just saying they could have had leather furniture if they wanted.

My wife thought a leather club chair would add class to our bedroom. I told my wife that a crystal chandelier and Gary Grant in a tuxedo couldn’t add class to our room.

That time my wife told me to put a *&^%$#@ sock in it.”

My wife told me she found a leather club chair for our bedroom at a large store where we pay money to shop. I’ve never understood the concept of paying money to shop in a store, but I guess that doesn’t matter because one Saturday, a couple of weeks ago, my wife and I drove to the large store with the cover charge to buy a leather club chair. When we got to the chair aisle, my wife pointed to a chair high up on a shelf.

“There it is.”

“OK, let’s get someone to pull one from the back,” I said.

“No, I want you to sit in it first,” my wife said.

“I thought this was the chair you wanted,” I said.

“But I want you to try it to make sure you like it,” my wife said.

“But I don’t want this chair,” I said.

“I know. But I want you to like it,” she said.

“Do they sell beer here?” I asked.

Even though we paid money to shop at the large store, we couldn’t find anyone to help me get the chair off the high shelf. So I did it myself, nearly having a heart attack in the process.

“Now sit in it,” my wife said when I finally got the chair on the floor.

I sat in the chair.

“What do you think?” my wife said.

“I think I’m having a heart attack,” I said.

Then I slid out of the chair.