The other day, I bought a new sofa. That is to say, I ordered it, and it will be in my apartment within three months, a period of time so eternal that the moon could spin out of orbit before my butt has a comfortable evening in front of the television. (Right now, a typical night finds me, Rob, and Goblin jockeying for position on a comforter spread on the floor, the sole “comfort” my bare living room has to offer.)

Naturally, what I want to know is how on earth it could take three months to deliver a sofa. Certainly it must be custom upholstered in my choice of fabulous fabric, but is this fabulous fabric perchance being knitted by minuscule elves? Even so, they could probably do it in a month, tops. Or perhaps my sofa is being delivered by the Slug Brigade, and soon, I will see it coming down the street, progressing just a few slimy inches per day.

The clever thing is that I do not know the exact day of its arrival, so I cannot hold the sofa company to their word. “Ten to twelve weeks” certainly does not mean eight weeks, but they could conceivably stretch it to fourteen or even eighteen, if the minuscule elves go on strike or something. Then again, perhaps I should not be so anxious to know the exact day my sofa will come. I just read a short story in Harper’s about a city where everyone was cursed to know the exact day of their death, and that certain knowledge immediately took all the joy out of life.

Maybe if I could predict the exact instant my new sofa would cross the threshold, it would take all the joy out of sitting on the floor.