After five+ years of negotiation with my wife, I got the gift of a wonderful dad-ass recliner for my 43rd birthday. It’s petite and looks like a regular leather dad chair before it’s glorious transformation into a relaxation station. Per tradition, kids aren’t allowed to use dad’s recliner; it’s the one sacred space in our house.

A small brown leather chair that is secretly a recliner tucked away in the corner of my living room, next to it an old brass lamp.

The recliner has been a major boost to my calmness. Having my feet up after a long day of sitting at my desk produces a psychological effect that scientists refer to as “maxin’ and relaxin’”. This is not a sports-dad chair for yelling at my fantasy employees, oh no. This, my lovelies, is a book nook for a grown man. A stack of devices (iPad, Kindle, Macbook) sits piled next to the chair so I can follow whatever whim the Muses enchant me with, as the forefathers intended. President Ben Franklin once wrote in his diary “The secret to Man’s creativity is having a sweet ass recumbent chair.”

This recliner will launch a thousand blog posts. This recliner is where I’ll write the next great American sci-fi novel. This recliner is where I’ll create apps and games late at night after the family goes to sleep. This recliner is where I’ll nod off on lazy Saturday afternoons like a dog in the sun. This recliner is where I’ll store decades and decades of farts until I die and my children’s children judiciously and uncaringly throw it in a dumpster, divorced of sentimentality and awareness of the suitcases of emotional baggage from grandpa’s ancient computer job that I unpacked in this chair.