My dad had a La-Z-Boy recliner in green tweed fabric, likely purchased in the late 1960s or early ‘70s. If you’re picturing Archie Bunker’s chair from All in the Family or Martin Crane’s from Frasier, think worse. Much worse. By the time I came along, the seat had shed its tweed, exposing shredded foam that made it look like we owned a particularly destructive cat. Come to think of it, we did.
When the chair’s glory days ended, my dad moved it to the basement, praising its unbeatable reclining mechanism. “They don’t make chairs like this anymore,” he’d say. “It just needs new upholstery.” The rest of us strongly disagreed. It was an eyesore and blocked access to the basement storage.
When Furniture Meets Flavor
The chair’s demise turned aromatic when my mom, who worked in our family’s pizza restaurant, brought home expired bags of spices – oregano, fennel, basil. She couldn’t bear to waste them. Since she couldn’t access storage because of a certain chair, she stacked the oversized bags on its seat. Over time, the bags tore open, embedding their scents into the foam. Walking past it was like encountering a giant scratch-and-sniff sticker from a pizzeria. We dubbed it “the spicy La-Z-Boy.”
Convincing a Pack Rat
For years, I begged my dad to let us toss the chair. He resisted, clinging to its supposed utility. Then a neighbor rented a dumpster. I didn’t ask for permission – I asked for forgiveness. The spicy La-Z-Boy was quietly hauled out and unceremoniously dumped.
Dad eventually noticed and grumbled about it, but he forgave me. I’m sure he mourned that chair and its “quality mechanism” until the end.
Valulosis: A Family Affliction
My dad’s attachment to that chair might have stemmed from growing up with little, but it was also a classic case of what I call Valulosis – the illusion that your possessions are far more valuable than they are. (Feel free to use this term, but I’d like credit. Please and thank you.)
That chair wasn’t the only example of Valulosis in our home. Take Mom’s fine china, for instance. She had a full set with delicate gold trim that you couldn’t microwave, dishwash, or even breathe on, lest it break. When I suggested we sell it, she gasped as if I’d proposed tossing the family Bible. “Do you know how expensive this was in 1962?” she insisted. Spoiler alert: not as much as it cost to move it decades later.
Then there were the silver-plated utensils in a velvet-lined box that looked fit for crown jewels. We never used them because they required polishing – an activity that should be outlawed under the Geneva Conventions.
And let’s not forget the figurines. My mom collected porcelain pieces, including one of a whistling girl whose head had been glued back on so many times it looked like she’d suffered a terrible neck injury. “But it’s a Hummel!” she’d say whenever I suggested decluttering.
Small appliances were another offender. Dad insisted that broken toasters and hand mixers “just needed a new part.” Replacement parts were never purchased, of course, so the appliances sat in the basement, awaiting a triumphant return to glory.Top of Form
More Relics of the Overvalued Era
Valulosis isn’t limited to my family. It’s a generational condition, passed down like an heirloom lamp you don’t want but can’t throw away. Here are a few other gems likely gathering dust in basements across America:
- Milk glass vases: Once charming, now thrift store staples.
- Old encyclopedias: My parents kept an entire set, arguing, “What if the Wi-Fi goes out?”
- Vintage Tupperware: The lids are warped, but dark orange and deep olive might trend again.
- VHS tapes: “Home movies!” Dad said, forgetting we no longer owned a VCR.
- Holiday decorations: Boxes of tangled tinsel and faded Santas last used when Nixon was in office.Bottom of Form
The Cure for Valulosis? A Dumpster and a Dose of Reality
In hindsight, I’m glad we snuck my dad’s spicy La-Z-Boy into the neighbor’s dumpster. That chair may have been seasoned to perfection, but it wasn’t exactly heirloom material. For years, Dad grumbled, “They don’t make chairs like that anymore.” He was right – no furniture company offers pre-embedded fennel aromatherapy.
As for me, I personally caught a case of Valulosis involving Beanie Babies that really were worth something. That’s a tale for another day. Those stuffed animals were my wake-up call: not everything we own is worth what we think it is – sentiment or sweat equity included.
Now, I embrace the idea that memories don’t take up space, and stuff is just stuff. That doesn’t mean I’m immune to Valulosis, but now I catch myself before turning a spice-dusted recliner into a family treasure.
Let’s Have a Conversation:
- Do you have a “spicy La-Z-Boy” in your life – a piece of furniture or an object you can’t let go of? Or are you a recovering Valulosis sufferer like me? Share your stories about treasures (or junk) you’ve held onto and why.
- What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever tried to “save”? Or, better yet, what’s the one thing you regret letting go?
- Retired teachers? Need a laugh about some of our hoarding issues? Here’s a link to our podcast’s episode on the topic: Teachers Are Hoarders.
Let’s share a laugh in the comments – after all, one person’s trash is another’s scratch-and-sniff sticker!
