For many years I longed for a beautiful leather chair. It was my opinion that every writer’s study should have bookshelves teeming with dusty classics, a fireplace to give the room a cozy feel, and a luxurious leather chair to complete the look. Mind you, my so-called study is only a second bedroom – not a real study at all – but no matter, it’s merely a question of semantics. A bedroom can be called a study, an office, or a den. It’s all at the discretion of the writer who can be called a scribbler, an author, or a dramatist.

I knew a fireplace was out of the question, but a few years ago I walked into a furniture store and found the perfect chair. I sank into the leather and inhaled the intoxicating aroma. I ran my fingers over the brass studs. I leaned back, closed my eyes, rested my feet on the matching ottoman, and knew this was the chair for me. I envisioned writing great masterpieces while the gentle strains of a Mozart or Haydn symphony filled my tiny room.

I had only one concern. I wasn’t sure if this monstrosity of a chair could squeeze into my study. My trailer home is old and the doors are tiny. However, the salesman assured me if the chair wouldn’t fit through the doorway, the delivery guy would load it back on the truck and return it to the store, no problem. He saw how much I wanted that chair and dismissed my concern with a wave of his hand.

To my delight, with a minimum of shoving, crushing, and threatening to get out the Vaseline, the chair found its rightful home. Words cannot describe the satisfaction I felt as I sat at my desk and gazed at my new purchase. The fact that two-thirds of the room was now taken up by my stupendous chair didn’t faze me. It didn’t matter that I had to walk sideways to reach my clothes closet or that my oak dictionary stand was now permanently lodged in the living room. I didn’t care that every time I left my desk, I crashed into the ottoman parked directly behind me. The thrill of owning something I had yearned for was greater than any inconvenience it caused. When my writing stalled, my eyes left the blank page and rested on a fulfilled dream. I reasoned if one dream had come true, many more would follow. I returned to my work knowing the leather chair muse was with me.

Then winter descended. My bedroom study is poorly heated. As November winds blew all the way through March, my attitude towards my chair changed. I no longer saw its beauty, only its coldness. I couldn’t sit on it unless I was wrapped in layers of heavy clothing, and it was shrouded with a dozen quilts. I resented crawling over it to get to my clothes closet. I was tired of bumping into the ottoman. When I read rough drafts of my work, the quilts slipped and my back felt the icy cold of the chair.

I finally admitted my muse had become a monster. It was nothing more than a cold, burgundy lump. I yearned for the comfort and warmth of my old fabric recliner, but in my haste to experience my new chair, I had given the recliner to a friend. I’m old enough to know when I’m defeated. I drove to town and purchased a new chair, a plain blue fabric one that hugged me with all the warmth and dependability of an old friend.

There was no need to inquire if my new chair would fit through the doorway. Of course it would because it was a sensible size. The delivery fellow wrestled the albatross out of my study. I didn’t care if the leather was damaged in the move as my love for it had vanished. When asked where he should put the unwanted intruder, I suggested he drag it to the living room. I told him I was giving it to my cats. A look of horror crossed his face, but I told him not to worry. I knew Smokey and Sweetie wouldn’t want that iceberg any more than I did.

My experience shows we must be careful what we wish for. When we get the object of our longing, it’s rarely as rewarding as we thought. Sometimes it’s a thorough disappointment, a burden, or a nuisance.

You know what I mean don’t you?

Meet Sharon