I bought two new cushion covers the other day.
I was really thrilled because they were expensive designer cushion covers that had been marked down from $50 each to $10 each. I would never pay $50 each for them because quite frankly the thought of spending $100 on two empty fabric sacks to be stuffed with polyester wadding and used by my toddler as a snot rag is a little bit ludicrous to me.
They are black and white typographic cushion covers, so very “on trend” as they say in interior design circles. It is also the sort of thing you would say if you are a pretentious wanker or have watched one too many episodes of The Block. Or both, in my case.
We were in the Domayne discount store and I was doing my usual seemingly-vacant-yet-intensely alert meandering around the store that is so misunderstood and despised by my husband when I spotted them from across the room, barely a millisecond after he dropped the sneering remark “You are SO desperate to buy something, aren’t you?”.
They had an entire alphabet of black and white typographic cushion covers. There were literally dozens to choose from and I had no idea which two I should select. What I did know was that I had a very small window of time to make my decision, a window of time dictated by the the silent-yet-disapproving impatience of my husband and my three year old’s more obvious public performance of prize-winning preschooler whining.
I did what my heart was screaming at me to do. I chose the letters “N” and “O”. It was an act of mental defiance intended to represent the symbolic act of saying “NO” to the bellyaching, grouching, grizzling, moaning males in my family. It felt like a cathartic stroke of ironic genius at the time.
As soon as I got them home and on my sofa I realised my error. I not only have my husband and two small children to nag and argue with and berate me, I now have trendy monochromatic throw pillows to do that to me as well, every time I walk into my lounge room. Even my cushions defy me. I hate them.