They tried to take my couch

You know you're at the absolute bottom of life's totem pole when the Salvation Army comes to take your couch. I was just about to step into the shower this morning and there was a knock on my bedroom door. It was so tentative I barely heard it.

"Bianca? They can't get the couch out the front door."
I ripped open the door. "What! What do you mean? They came to take the couch?"
"It's July 8th, right?"
"No! No! Shit. Holy Crap." I rushed around looking for any pair of pants or shorts, remotely clean, that fit over my belly. "Wait! Wait!" I pleaded, hopping into my light aqua sweat pants.

I met the two movers in the doorway, both already breaking a sweat, almost breaking my couch. Begging their pardon, apologizing profusely, I asked them to please let me keep it, just a little while longer. I explained that I tried to call yesterday to postpone my donation date. I called several times and no one answered so I left a message.

"Oh, okay," they agreed calmly, half relieved that they didn't have to maneuver it out the door and down the slippery flagstone stairs. "Nobody told us, but no problem."
"Are you sure it's okay to postpone? I'm really sorry," I mealed, hoping to avoid an argument.
"Yeah, yeah, don't worry about it, " they beamed, nodding to each other in agreement as they backed the couch into its rectangular imprint on the area rug.

I let my shoulders relax and exhaled. Three more weeks before I have to release my well-worn flame-stitched sofa bed into the wild.