Confessions of a Bench

I’m not just a slab of wood with legs. I’ve lived more lives than most furniture in this house, and I’m not done yet.

First, I was the Dining Room Darling.
Back then, I was the place where elbows rested and secrets were whispered over pasta. People squeezed in on me like we were all one big happy family — and sometimes we actually were. Chairs thought they were the stars, but I knew who really kept the party close.

Then I moonlighted as a Coffee Table.
One day, I woke up in the living room, holding magazines and mugs instead of people. A tray kept the crumbs in check, but I still felt like I was in the middle of every conversation. Honestly? I didn’t mind the promotion to centerpiece.

My next gig was the Entryway Greeter.
Shoes on, shoes off — I saw it all. I was the first to say hello and the last to wave goodbye. The hallway rug and I became fast friends, and the coat rack liked to gossip about who was running late.

I became the Emergency Guest Seat.
Game night? Extra cousin at Christmas? “Bring the bench!” they’d say. I’d roll in, smooth as ever, making room for whoever needed it. Flexibility is my middle name.

Then came my glamorous Bedroom Era.
Perched at the foot of the bed, I became a stage for silk robes, chunky knit blankets, and the occasional laundry pile (rude, but fine). I liked the calm — the way the moonlight spilled across my surface at night.

And yes, I’ve been a Footrest.
Some might think that’s a demotion, but I call it luxury service. Supporting tired legs while people read, nap, or binge TV? That’s sacred work.

Through it all, I’ve learned one thing:
I’m not just furniture. I’m the quiet constant, the shape-shifter, the reliable one who shows up where I’m needed. The chairs can keep their stability — I’ll take versatility any day.