The older I get, the more reading chairs I seize around our home. Sherry, the dominant power of the household, complains that a book or magazine of mine remains indefinitely on at least four seating areas. She attempts to gather them up and put them on a shelf, but I have taken a mighty stand.
My living room chair is blue, big and beckons me nightly. It’s for my fun fiction book of the week (or sometimes month). It’s currently occupied by “The Beantown Girls.” When my macho friends come over, I slide it under the cushion.
My straight back office chair has the latest copy of The Harvard Business Review. Occasionally, I find an article that supports my management style. I mark it all up and require our senior staff to read it.
My chair at the kitchen table is owned by the latest New Yorker magazine. I love the cartoons and not much else.
Finally, the chair I have claimed in the corner of our bedroom is reserved for historical biographies. Currently, Che Guevara has captured the space. I can learn a lot from Che when dealing with Sherry.
When I turn 75, I plan to go after five chairs.