Coffee table to nowhere

I've never owned a coffee table. Let me restate that. I never owned a coffee table until recently. My thrift-gifted uncle found me a second-hand one a few weeks ago which cost $4.88. It's worth every dime. But not a penny more.

Now, I know what you're thinking: “An essay about a coffee table must mean the writer is talking about more than just a coffee table.” Okay so maybe I didn't know what you were thinking but you bring up a good point. Perhaps my new coffee table is more than just a coffee table. Maybe it's a metaphorical expression of a new elevated sense of self-worth. A concretion of the abstract feeling of loftiness I've been experiencing of late. A sign that I've begun to rise above my once cold, dusty existence. If only 15 inches. After all, I've finally got a coffee table, arguably the most frivolous of home furnishings, so I must be doing something right. Right? Don't answer that.

Now before you start to think of me as some highfalutin dandy you should know that my coffee table is what most would call low-rent. (And everyone else would call kindling.) It's sturdy and functional and serves its purpose. It's also able to go above and beyond the call of coffee table duty just like any self-respecting coffee table should. Not only will it support a mug of piping french roast and the odd selection of periodicals, but one could sit on it for a spell or even step up momentarily to, say, change a light bulb or pile-drive your little brother. But it's low-rent so that's about the limit. I mean, I'm not going to be having intercourse on this coffee table. It's much too spindly for that. Again, I know what your thinking: “It isn't the coffee table's fault you're not going to be having intercourse on it. You're pretty spindly yourself, ya know,” so let me cut you off right there before this gets personal.

As I was saying, my coffee table is low-rent. If it were a bridge, it would be a causeway. It's more than a ford, though. A ford coffee table would just be a board lying on the floor in front of the sofa that you would trip over when you got up to go to the bathroom during every commercial break. (Note to reader: You should really have that over active bladder thing checked out by the way.) And it's no poetic suspension span linking my couch to my fireplace, that's for sure. No. If my coffee table were a bridge it would be a causeway. Ably transporting traffic over a shallow obstacle while also providing open water access for local anglers and breeding niches for sea birds (or vice versa), yet easily wiped out by even a modest hurricane/earthquake/alien invasion (all hail Supreme Commander Zark). Like I said, worth ever dime. But not a penny more.

Now, I don't want to get into a tussle over definitions with all the civil engineers out there. I could take one or two of you but in a gang I've heard you fight dirty. Let's just face it. My coffee table is nothing but that. Four secure, if skinny, brass tipped legs under 900 square inches of pressboard topped with a cheap faux veneer which goes particularly poorly with all the other various wood grains around the room. It's nothing but a place to put a colorful array of magazines, only one of which I actually subscribe to and none of which I really read, whose sole purpose I can only imagine is to be excitedly swept aside in a moment of unbridled amorous passion before the whole thing collapse, Icarus-like, back to the cold, dusty hardwood floor below.

And if you believe that'll ever happen, I've got a coffee table to sell you... for $4.88 and not a penny more.