HERB BENHAM: Getting to the bottom of Recliner Paralysis
| Saturday, Jul 24 2010 09:00 AM
Last Updated Saturday, Jul 24 2010 09:00 AM
After my wine glass that holds a bottle and a third of wine, my favorite item in the house -- and this should make divorce simple should we ever end up there -- is a brown leather recliner.
The color, never fashionable to begin with, has faded, but the leather seems to have gotten softer and the chair more inviting.
Like a lot of men (discriminating women as well, perhaps), I am fond of my recliner -- at lunch, for naps and during sporting events, which call on great effort from players but great surrender from spectators, which a recliner affords.
There is a medical condition that plagues those of us who have a love affair with our recliners. Not all recliners qualify and so, if you chose the path that my friend Curt initially did, you are probably safe.
Curt used to own a pair of Queen Anne recliners; that is to say they were suitably downsized in order to be better accent pieces in his living room. A true recliner does not come in compact sizes. It should overwhelm the decor in which it finds itself as well as occupy almost all potential living space. The elephant in the room is apropos here.
When Curt replaced his Queen Anne recliners with ones more like the Queen Mary in length, comfort and heft, he not only improved his standing within the recliner community. He left himself open to the medical condition many of us are subject to regardless of our better intentions -- Recliner Paralysis.
Recliner Paralysis is the medical term but, in layman's language, it is known as "I can't get out of this damn chair." "I can't get out of this damn chair" usually happens after 9:30 p.m, and becomes more acute after 10 p.m. Between 9:30 and 10 p.m., the incidence is 60 percent. After 10 p.m, it's 110 to 140 percent, allowing for the people who take the survey with their wives present, making them apt to fudge.
The symptoms rarely present themselves unless the chair's occupant is in the fully erect position -- the seat all the way back, the leg rest up in the air and the feet above the heart.
A few nights ago, we were watching a movie called "Flight of the Red Balloon." This is a French film, which is to say that the probability of anything happening is low. The film scudded along on the ground like a balloon that had lost its air.
I had a glass of red wine in my hands, the contents of which were diminishing as the movie wore on and the witching hour of "I can't get out of this damn chair" grew closer.
As the film became even more languid, I drained the wine and then sat the large, fragile glass on the floor next to the chair. I knew that if I put off carrying the glass to the sink, I risked kicking it when I got up several hours later in what was sure to be a groggy state.
The war had begun. My mind said, "Get up now. It's time to carry the glass to the sink, rinse it and then put it in the dish rack."
My body said, "No, I don't want to. Even if I did, 'I'm not sure I could get out of this damn chair.'"
Ten more minutes passed. The balloon lost more air. The movie was not over, but the war was. At least one soldier had put down his arms, surrendering to the inertia of a French film and a comfortable chair.
Recliner paralysis. Be careful. It's a gateway drug. The next thing you know, you'll be in the embrace of a full addiction.
