When Hubby and I moved from our house to a condo, the selling features were the small den I claimed as my “writing space” and the breakfast nook in the kitchen. We had the perfect table for two that would fit nicely into the nook with enough room for two chairs. Hubby and I decided that two adjustable stools would look absolutely smashing and being a short person, I embraced the idea of sitting “higher” at the table.

Five and a half years later, disaster struck. I blamed Covid. My spouse, wise man that he is, merely rolled his eyes and remained silent.

It wasn’t my fault when parking my butt on the seat, as I normally do, that the seat tilted and threatened to unseat me. I thought I heard the murmur of mini-donuts at the other end of the breakfast table, but Hubby’s attention was focused on his breakfast.

Carefully, I eased myself back on the stool and the most awful groan and screech came from the bowels of the pedestal that raised and lowered the seat. My sub-conscience snickered and said, “Honey, those 72% Dark Chocolate Godiva bars are not the thing to nibble for calorie control.” As I attempted to adjust my weight evenly on the stool, the darn thing screamed in agony and defiantly tipped 45 degrees, staying there in a permanent position. AND, when I slid off to manually straighten the seat, it emitted this terrible moan.

This morning was the final straw. I cautiously approached the stool, gingerly sat on the edge and promptly toppled off. So I did what any short underweight person would do. I went out and got a replacement.

Tomorrow, I will be sitting tall and straight on my new stool that is balanced, comfy and best of all, quiet. . . . .