Life of a table

Here’s the story of our dining set.

When our table met our chairs, they were unimpressed with each other.

“You’re not really trendy, are you?” the chairs said. “It’s going to be a drag hanging out with you.”

“You know, Ikea’s quite popular,” the table said defensively. “Don’t tell me you haven’t drooled over their catalog once or twice.”

“Well, yeah, some of their stuff’s pretty edgy, but well, you’re just kind of…blah.”

“I’m sensible,” the table said, and went off to sulk.

The chairs had bad habits from the start, but they became less and less reliable. After nursing them through rehab a few times and seeing them relapse, we gave up. We kicked them out and hired a new support team.

The new chairs were grand and statuesque, and at first the table was intimidated, afraid of being snubbed again.

“You’re all so beautiful,” it mumbled.

“I’m glad you think so,” said one of the new chairs in its rich chestnut tones. “I sometimes feel like a bit of a poser with these faux distress marks all over me. But I feel like we’ll fit in well here. I see you come by your distress honestly.”

“I try to look hardworking and commonsense,” the table said gratefully.

“It suits you,” the chairs said. “Especially with that interesting knotty pine texture.”

They got along swimmingly.

Later, James happened to remark, “The table looks better now that we’ve gotten these new chairs, don’t you think?”

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