- I didn’t have a chair.
- It was red.
- I was of that age when one tends to salvage things from the side of the road as a matter of course, and sort out the details later on.
The chair was broken. Obviously. I used it in its dilapidated state for about 5 years. Then I decided to take it apart and see if I could fix it. Then I used it in its dilapidated state for another year and a half. Then I stopped using it and it sat in my room taking up floor space for a few months while I used a chair stolen from our dining room table that lacked wheels but possessed appropriately oriented back-support.
Today I gathered together about 80% of the tool collection I own, to whit: 1 hammer, 1 monkey-wrench, 1 Phillips-head screw-driver, and 1 set of Allen Keys, and set out on a mission to fix the chair, with the secondary (and, were I to be honest with myself, much more feasible) objective of breaking it into smaller parts that would be easier to dispose of when the sad inevitability that it would never again work as its makers intended became too glaringly apparent to ignore.
I failed in both the primary and secondary objectives, though, on the bright side, succeeded in accomplishing the tertiary objective of breaking the chair into a bunch of pieces that were each, individually, more cumbersome and difficult to dispose of than the chair would have been as a whole.
I guess it’s a good thing I’m a capable cook and not averse to doing dishes and laundry.