This is a corner couch.
If you’re like most people, you probably call them sectional sofas. You’ve probably seen one before. You may have one in your living room. You might even be sitting on one right now.
For years, having one of these was a symbol of true adulthood. The corner couch was a measure of success.
The first time I recall seeing one, I was still in high school, visiting a recently graduated, recently married friend of mine whom I looked up to. From there, I just kept noticing them, usually at the homes of people who were farther along in life than me. My association between corner couches and sophistication and maturity grew. I could imagine myself as an up-and-coming writer, lounging adultishly with a laptop in a stylish studio apartment in New York. It was a silly goal, but it was a goal.
I recently started going back to school for psychology, my master’s to be precise. It’s all part of a larger plan to become a researcher and eventually, a professor, specializing in music therapy in particular. Because I’m still battling the monsoon of debt from my bachelor’s degrees, I decided to try to pay for all or most of my classes out-of-pocket, which required a bit of sacrifice.
Namely, my stupid freaking corner couch.
I’d been building up my savings for a long while, with the intention of at least part of the money going toward my comfy, angular sofa. In the end, almost every dime I’d amassed ended up going toward my first graduate class.
And I was completely okay with it.
As ridiculous as it sounds, the corner couch became to me what the green light was to Jay Gatsby, this futile pipe dream, an arbitrary symbol of something that never really mattered anyways. Maturity isn’t something you attain; it’s something you become. Part of that necessary growth is letting go of trivial nonsense and realizing what’s actually important.
Which is rarely, if ever, a piece of furniture.
JESSA JOYCE 